Jayne Ryan

Grew up amongst the wildscape of the Norfolk Broads in an idyllic rural village, not unlike Narnia

Learnt to swim the world’s oceans aboard a fine cruiser before being dumped into the hot empty city of Sydney – think Mad Men without the irony

Morphed into a young woman as my friends formed INXS and tested their music in our garage, beats thumping on hot terrace tiles, under our feet, fresh from swimming

Yearned for visitings from Mr Bowie, Roxy Music and Blondie – asked God to make me look like Jerry Hall

Observed the boardroom tips and media smiles of Margaux Hemingway and passed innocently through the underworld of Sydney’s poets and dead men

Draped myself in fur and velvet for Jewish fashionistas and purveyors of silk

Burnt an Italian heart in trade for an English lesson and a few puffs of something illicit

Like backwards (thanks Sinead) and forwards to England, Australia, England, Australia – watched Siouxsie, the Sex Pistols and Adam Ant at the Marquee; walked to Marble Arch in snow, in my sandals – I never listen

A corporate gypsy for too many years with a shoebox of burning revelations and aesthetics under the bed

Too many loves, too many lovers, too much of everything

Grief and sorrow

A soul mate arrives and a healthy bloom appears on the stem of my life

A drumbeat calls, maybe too late, maybe not

I now walk in the cracks between London’s mysteries and the sodden green jewels of the English countryside

My Imprints are moulded on a hot stone, a writer nods to herself; that is what she is and always has been.