I don't understand people who travel purely gastronomically, who book a Michelin-starred restaurant three months in advance and suddenly find themselves in Copenhagen or Barcelona with a zeitgeist plate of snail porridge.
Just when my biological clock started ticking, I found out it was going to be virtually impossible. And it was very hard.
I'd never been one for leaving the comforts of home. That person wasn't me; I didn't spend my formative years youth-hostelling round Rwanda or climbing Everest in a tie-dye playsuit to raise awareness of something or other.
I'd like to live permanently in October 1988, when I started college. I had no responsibility and the energy to do whatever I wanted. My optimism wasn't dented by experience or low self-esteem.
I've always thrown myself into love in a rather carefree way, and the net result is that you do get hurt. But I wouldn't take away any of the experiences of my life.
I was an international krumper at one time. I can't talk about it, really, because when you've lived for krump like I have, when you get a bit older and you move away from it, it's hard.