August 1997

I was four years old when Princess Diana died. But I can remember it clearly. Can actually remember sitting in the back seat of my Mum’s blue Ford Fiesta, her body in an 80’s Kangol tracksuit turned towards me, pleadingly, as I screamed so hard I felt acid in my throat.

This story has now become a funny part of our family lore. Like the time I picked up a stag beetle to kiss it and it attached itself to my upper lip where it stayed, dangling, until my Dad came to the rescue.

The running joke is that I found out there would be a 2-minute silence, and I was worried I couldn’t do it. While believable, this is not the truth, but I have decided to let the story be.

Because it’s hard to explain that I thought Princess Diana was my Mum. Or maybe I thought my Mum was Princess Diana. Even with my Mum sitting plainly in front of me. Her surname was Spencer! They had the same hair! The evidence was compelling, your honour.

And it’s the same story now. I’m so good at believing that I FEEL the most about things. About films, and the news. When other people claim to care too I want to snatch it out of their hands. Oh, you cried at One Day? Well, I watched it alone. On an aeroplane. Imagine how affected I am.

It has genuinely taken me to my thirties to let people have their own feelings. And even if I privately believe that I am an empath, and I FEEL THE MOST about life, I now know there are better ways of channelling it.

Maybe that’s why I started this Substack in the first place.