It’s an effort to recapture the detail of guilty repose, because what I want is to plunge into Denoon and what followed. But the prelude is important, probably. I feel like someone after the deluge being asked to describe the way it was before the flood while I’m still plucking seaweed out of my hair, Denoon being the deluge. Despite my metaphors, the last thing I want to do is fabulize Denoon and make him more than he was. I hate drama. I hate dramatizers. But it was distinctly like a building falling on me when I met him. Why? Why do we yield, when we don’t have to? I’d like to know, as a woman and a human being, both. What did the sex side of my life in Gabs up to then have to do with it? This is British: Gaborone equals Gabs, Lobatse Lobs, Molepolole Moleps, undsoweiter. If I seem to convey that everyone I was involved with sexually pre-Denoon that summer was a clod or worse, I take it back in advance. That wasn’t it.