What would motivate someone to write a memoir? Isn’t that like selling the family silver—cashing in on cherished memories? I suppose it is, (and we kids sold ours as soon as we got our hands on it). Who has the time to polish a teapot destined for one outing a year? Writing road shows excite participants with the good news that everyone possesses an inner narrative, something a bit more interesting than I got born, went to school, got married, had kids, divorced, worked, went grey, died. Some let their time capsule escape dressed up as a work of fiction. Others find poetry in their reminiscence. Or, they just go splat on the plate, with no garnish or gravy. At least I have added some salt and pepper to my story, leaving my father to add the chilli sauce. Memoirs are a form of verbal voyeurism. They invite you to

When my mother moved to her bungalow, she off-loaded on me the black bin bag she had been sitting on, containing all my childhood sayings and doings. My brother and sister got their bin bags too. Although junior school was a charmed time, from age eleven I lived at a boarding school three hours away from home, visiting the house where my parents lived for just sixteen weeks of each year. Amongst the first needlework, the first painting, the first writing, are letters: the ones I wrote and the ones I received during my seven years at Cheltenham Ladies’ College. The day I chose to open the bag was not ideal. I was off work due to stress, on medication for insomnia, stalked by my credit card companies, and cleaning for a disabled lady I had found by advertising my services in the local post office. Delving into my past