Telling Tales
During a recent interview, I was asked, 'What is unique about you?' Not an easy question. Once, in my London days, I both waited on Prince Charles and Princess Diana at a lunch and (some time later) 'enjoyed' an intimate meal with the two of them. I'm not sure many people can boast of that.
But having to dredge up a random cold-salmon lunch with a miserably unhappily married couple as the only thing that makes me 'unique'? That's not very interesting, is it? It's not as though I slept with Mick Jagger, for example. (On reflection, perhaps not sleeping with Mick does make me unique in my circle of girlfriends - at the time. It seems that, back then, everyone else had certainly been there and done that. Yuck. Just… yuck.)
Merely thinking about finding an answer to the 'unique' question made me sweat. It was hard to be amusing, self-deprecating and worth the attention of the readers for whom the answers were intended, so I didn't even try. I answered, 'Not very much, actually,' and moved on to the next question: 'What was the best time in your life?' Oh dear. What is unique about this interviewer is that she asks the worst questions ever. ('Why, oh Queen Of All Editors, is COSMO South Africa such a brilliant magazine?' is, for any budding journalist's information, a much lovelier question. I'd have appreciated that one.)
I couldn't answer the 'best time of my life' question with 'I write in my gratitude journal every day, tralala' and speed on, so I wrinkled my brow and thought of my 20s. I thought of careering through the south of Spain in a convertible with a bunch of happy girlfriends, and of driving through an African war zone in a bikini with a not unhandsome game ranger I had accidentally acquired somewhere. I remembered thinking it was funny to drink lots of cheap champagne and leap into a vlei filled with hippos… and then run for my life. I remembered plunging out of planes, walking out of jobs, popping over to Paris for a dodgy party in a nightclub one Saturday afternoon…. I thought about the time my BFF and I asked each other, 'How bad could it be?' before agreeing to join a billionaire on his yacht in the Mediterranean. (The answer to that question, by the way, remains 'extremely bad'. Remember this when next you ask it of yourself.) I remembered getting arrested at some flea-and-mosquito-infested border somewhere and thinking that my situation was hilarious.
My 20s were certainly risky. I remembered madness, rushes and adrenaline. I thought of all the bad decisions and all the great moments. I thought of how, now, older and wiser, I would never do any of those things.
I was lucky. The worst did not happen. While I did get cerebral malaria and almost died - and probably never recovered the brains I was born with - I was not eaten by a hippo or attacked by a drunken Greek shipping tycoon. I did not cause a war or marry Prince Charles.
Just as our feature on page 94 says, the 20s are a risky decade. A life without risk is a very good idea when you have children depending on you for safety and happiness. Before that? Use your brains and be sensible, but use your 20s wisely. That means having some fun, taking some chances and accumulating some memories.
One day you too will be interviewed, even if only by your grandchildren. Make sure you have some tales to tell.