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Back in my day, mothers pulled their daughters aside at a certain age to talk about the birds and the bees, but I think in retrospect, that the lectures should have emphasized how women have been subservient to men since biblical times. Girls define themselves by painting their faces with artificial blushes, cherry-mocha lip gloss and black mascara, hiding what’s inside them, forgetting who they really are.

I was a spitfire tomboy and only around thirteen when I made my first exciting escape, sneaking out at three o’clock in the morning, shimmying down the side of the house from my second floor bedroom window. I was a little shaky high up, but I had so much adrenaline before my feet touched the ground that I thought I could fly.

Phew! Sure glad that’s over. It never fails – it happens every year, around the holidays, when I get so over-wired and over-tired that my insomnia kicks in big time, and my lack of sleep makes me even loopier than I already am. I can’t think straight and cannot get from Point A to Point B without making painstaking pit stops along the way at Points L-M-N-O-P. My lapse in memory doesn’t help, and I need to backtrack every time I enter a room and wonder why I went in there in the first place. Now, what was I looking for? Oh yeah, toilet paper. Guess I gotta go. It took me so long to figure it out that the urge left me.