Also, in my bedroom, nobody minded if I kept the hall door half-open, allowing in enough light that I was not scared of the dark, and, just as important, allowing me to read secretly, after my bedtime, using the dim hallway light to read by, if I needed to. I always needed to.

There's a glorious sense of freedom in comedy, just allowing myself to tell jokes, allowing myself to interrupt myself and tell old African folk stories that I made up - or didn't - and Jamaican stories.

That's the trouble with living things. Don't last very long. Kittens one day, old cats the next. And then just memories. And the memories fade and blend and smudge together.

Bod was thrilled. He imagined a future in which he could read everything, in which all stories could be opened and discovered.

I'm never quite sure if I'm me when I'm dressed up.

The past is always knocking at the door, trying to break through into today.

He goes his way. We travel a spiral. The quickest way is sometimes the longest.