The strange thing about being an only child without any... not only without any siblings but without any cousins, although I had people that I knew and my parents' friends' children and so on, I... I was always very solitary. I suppose I was used to my mother's sympathy, but I wasn't used entirely to no company because of the maids and so on. I was very proper. And I remember when I was in St Louis when I was three, I went with my mother to visit a friend of hers who had a house, I remember it was up some steps, quite common in St Louis, the sidewalk is above the level of the road, you have to go up steps from where you've parked. We went into this house and there was her friend, blonde I think, and a little boy – the friend's little boy – ran out of the back of the house into the living room, as we used to call it, and he had nothing on his lower half, and he stood in the middle of the carpet and pissed all over it. I don't think his mother was particularly pleased, but she wasn't particularly horrified either and I... I think, I can remember thinking: I could never do that – I wish I could. If there's any truth in that memory, it's... it's a good one because I've often thought as I've gone on through life and have I not, that there were certain sorts of things which it seemed to me some people could do that I never could. The courageous things I understand very well why I wouldn't be able to do them, or might not be able to do them, probably wouldn't be able to do them, but the bold things, the challenging things in public... no, I've never been very good at that. All my challenges come covertly, later, in print or at least in handwriting. That's the kind of way I piss on the carpet: never at the time, always a little later, but hopefully, as they say, in a nice pattern.