No one walks for pleasure in Los Angeles, certainly not up steep streets anyway, unless it’s a formal hardcore exercise mission or hiking expedition. But being a crazy Australian, one crazy hot day I was trudging up the steep incline of Kirkwood Drive where we were subletting a friend’s house in Laurel Canyon, dragging my recalcitrant, exhausted young sons behind me, carrying my high heel sandals with a rather lovely thrift store vintage floral frock sweatily clinging to me, when a passing car slowed down and a woman stuck her head out the window and yelled ‘I love your dress!’ down the street at me.

Mentors are hard to come by. But oh, how we need them. I am always hungry to learn, keen to draw encouragement from and witness those that are forging ahead in directions I’m still dreaming of and sometimes I need to glean those moments from strange places. Or from total strangers.

I first went to Jean Francois Vallée’s tiny Greenwich Village apartment in New York City when I was seventeen. It was a six minute walk from Cafe Wha? and The Bitter End, two legendary venues I’d heard of and felt a thrill to even be near. Every single thing in New York felt full of significance and enigmatic meaning and possibility lurked around every corner…

Many years ago, we shared a backyard with a gorgeous older Greek lady, Rachil, who - at the beginning of every December – would set to work cleaning every surface, weeding the garden, washing and shaking out all the bed clothes and house linens for hours on end, and generally working herself to the bone in socks and sandals with a fag in her mouth, sometimes hooked up to oxygen at the same time, while moaning ‘Christmas is coming!’ over and over like he was an evil inspector who was going to grade her on cleanliness.

We got married to the strains of The Ronettes’ ‘Be My Baby’ pumping out across the beautiful Zebulon, Georgia fields, wearing a Loretta Lynn kind of dress I bought for $70 on eBay. The moment couldn’t have been more perfect. After a lifetime of swooning every time its unmistakeable heartbeat began, ‘Be My Baby’ was now officially our song. I loved the special spiderweb connection I could feel crisscrossing America between me and Ronnie Spector.

Ghosts are everywhere, all the time, not just on Halloween.

Emma Balfour told me a story when we were kids about seeing a ‘ghost baby’ with her little brother, in a big old house they were staying in, that to me was the proof I needed to verify that ghosts were real. Emma was very down to earth, I was convinced that if she had seen a ghost, then that was that, they were real.

I stepped out my front door to go get some fresh air and the supreme stillness of a tiny bird just standing on the armchair on my porch, staring straight ahead brought me to a halt. I could feel trauma emanating from its tiny motionless frame. It was an insanely windy day and I theorised that the wind had just blown the birdie straight into the window behind him and he was stunned.

Good times and bum times - I’ve seen ‘em all - And, my dear,

I’m still here - I’m feeling transcendental, am I here?

My exotic fascinations run deep, all the way back to Toltoy’s Jenny the Jet Setting Qantas Air Hostess, who sported a tropical floral patterned uniform designed by Emilio Pucci, still in my opinion, the ultimate day dress. I’d like a wardrobe with seven of them and little else. Jenny looked slightly deranged or maybe like she’d just had a couple of cocktails, and she had a terrible shag haircut and bad shoes but she also came equipped with a hula skirt and bikini and took off all around the world to exotic locations like Japan! Vienna! and sowed tiny tropical seeds within my heart and a love for the idea of far flung locations and travel.

Curtains drawn, hooked up to antibiotic drip and monitors, my beloved was recovering in hospital after an emergency visit, waiting for the doctor to sign him out so we could leave.

In the tightly made bed opposite him, a very gnarled old man sat perched on the side, knapsack at his feet, quietly waiting in vain for the promised doctor. He didn’t read or look out the window, just sat patiently. A large bandage covered half his face. My heart went out to him and I struck up a conversation.

My first band had twelve members, my next one had six, and then there were eight. To organise a rehearsal or book a gig meant sitting down next to the phone and making actual phone calls with prospective dates, of which a large proportion would be met by answering machines or housemates, and would then entail numerous follow ups for the next few days until a time could be locked in, or until the whole process had to begin again with a fresh date. I’d hold my breath when I had agreed availability from ten band members and had to wait on a final OK to nail it down. It seems so outrageously difficult now when I can communicate with my fellow musicians via group messages to which everyone can reply at their own leisure.