Today is my last diary entry for Diary of a Sloane Sheila, at least for now. 

In 1989, when I married Geoffrey, I joined the land of pheasants and stags in England.

The last twenty eight years in England has been a roller coaster. And a complete contrast to the first half of my life as a kangaroo in Australia, the sunkissed, majestic land of my birth. But England is green and regal, and I have embraced it. It has been kind to me. I have had the best of both worlds.

I try not to check the statistics of the diary; who is reading, how many and where? I have tried to write for the sheer love of writing. I have loved it – it has been joyful. Most mornings, I woke up and knew exactly what I wanted to write about. But the story is told, or so I think it is.

My life is ordinary, but extraordinary things happen to ordinary people. Don’t you feel that?

Mrs California had a party for her 50th in Los Angeles. She is the best party thrower imagineable. Think of the parties Jay Gatsby threw in The Great Gatsby. Hers rival them. And she is a dream maker. I went up in her fighter jet on one visit to see her, and I coasted along the beaches of Malibu, up in the heavens.

Her 50th birthday bash was a five day event. We had a red bus, with a handsome chaffeur, who ferried her girlfriends from London around: Hollywood, Warner Brotheres Studios, trendy restaurants, Rodeo Drive and the legendary party on the last night. The party planner made an exact replica of the famous restaurant, Trader Vic’s, a tropical Polynesian style restaurant/bar, where the ‘old school’ film stars, like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, hung out in their prime.

One morning, midway in the celebrations, we were told to wear comfortable clothes. We were heading for the pier at Venice Beach. A surprise awaited us. ‘Brilliant,’ I thought. ‘We’re off on a boat trip.’

We stopped at the fair ground. The treat was…wait for it…to learn to trapeze. I immediately said I couldn’t possibly, that I was afraid of heights. Nevertheless, I was cajoled into going through the training session. Before I knew it, I was climbing up a very tall circus ladder to a platform, where I was wired up, so that if I fell, I wouldn’t plummet too fast. I looked down when I reached the platform. People looked like ants on the ground. I was told to lean forward over the expanse, away from the platform. And then I was expected to become airborne at the moment the instructor gave the signal.

Leaning forward was one thing. Becoming airborne, another matter entirely. My heart was threatening to pound out of my chest.

The idea was to swing out, then wrap your legs over the bar, and then hang upside down, then grip the bar again, let your legs drop, and then swing again, and then finally drop into the net. It is all to do with physics. The momentum helps you to complete the tasks, not muscle power.

The first time all I could do was swing, hanging on for dear life.

There she goes

I said I was happy to do just that. The instructor refused to let me stop. He explained that if I just lifted my legs when he gave the comand, they would find their way to the bar and go over it, so that I could hang upside down. I believed him. Up I went again.

Overcoming fear is a big thing. Taking risks is part of life, and if you can, then you can fly. I did it!!!

Let go and fly

This diary has been a risk. Thank you for all the people all over the world who have had a peek. For those who read it all, thank you for your persistence. I have loved connecting with so many of you through it.

I started the diary for many reasons, but mainly for my mother, Beverley.