The aftermath of “The Owl Service”

Like Helen Bonham Carter I lived “en famille” until rather late. She was thirty-five when she left her parent’s home, and whereas she slipped into the arms of the man she loved, shortly before my twenty fifth birthday, in the week after I finished "The Owl Service" I left in search of life.
  It would be the summer of hell and heaven. “Manson” and “Man on the Moon”. The summer Brian Jones was found dead in a pool, two days before my birthday.
  I walked the two blocks from my new home and arrived in Hyde Park as Mick Jagger sent hundreds of white butterflies into the blue sky. That limpid afternoon The Rolling Stones played all for one: Brian, the one who looked like an angel with his cape of ash hair.
  Our paths would cross at various times when I was living in Paris. One evening right before I left for England, jammed against a low table in a dark club with Mick Jones ( he was interested in writing songs with me, later he would go to the USA and form Foreigner) crammed as we all were he asked if I would like to dance. Delighted, I got up with a start and spilt my glass over Brian's trousers. He was very polite about it, just smiled, waved a hand.
  By Christmas my tiny new room had a cupboard that contained some of Ossie Clark's clothes. To celebrate the new decade that was about to begin, I made myself a very special bag. Embroidered intricately in many shades of dusty rose from thread and linen found in Copenhagen, I added to it a dark plum silk that matched my eyelids. Each stitch contained the wish that my new independent self would find that elusive “something” I knew I had to retrieve.
Maybe that is what my life is all about… not the finding.