In anticipation of the 50th anniversary of the Summer of Love, I pulled my 1967 London Diary out of the closet, edited it cringingly, and kept the best bits in. The result is a coming-of-age narrative combined with a portrait of a milestone year.
I was 16 turning 17, living in a glass-and-cedar house designed, and built, by my English-Dutch parents.
Too young to be "tuning in and dropping out" I was intrigued by swinging London, a train ride away. As the year evolved and flowers took hold, I was slowly won over by the Love Generation - irritated by the peace-and-love talk, but sewing patches on my jeans.
A grammar school girl with a posh streak, a stalker of French pop stars who learnt the lyrics, I was both bookish and trite. If the Sixth Form was a delight, the social life was a disaster, and when it came to boys, I experienced lust and terror.