Someone asked me recently how I identified and I had to laugh because it brought me back and involves Jim Morrison. I was fifteen. I was completely, catastrophically obsessed with him and I genuinely couldn't tell you whether I wanted to love him or be him. A fifteen year old girl, certain that somehow this man, this particular chaos of poetry and leather and self-destruction, was speaking directly to her. Then came Prince. Same feeling. Something in him reached something in

There is a particular kind of humbling that comes with the school holidays. I know what is happening. I can name it, frame it, hold it in theoretical context. And still, still, I feel it. The slight unravelling that comes when my structure falls away, when my routine, that quiet scaffolding that holds my days in shape, is suddenly gone. I go from one version of myself to another. The working me, anchored in schedule, purpose, professional identity, gives way to something more