My Book Has Been Published!

 
This book chronicles my life growing up on a council estate in post-war England, my metamorphosis at the age of 18 to becoming a Playboy bunny at the once famous London Playboy Club, a favoured destination in the 60s and 70s for many of the world’s rich and famous, to eventually leaving it all behind for the fulfilment of marriage and motherhood in Canada, my new adopted country. Along the way, travelling far and wide, experiencing fantastical highs and dizzying lows, trading blissful  naïvety for a full-blown education in life. If the old adage “that everyone has a story” is true, then this is mine.

The challenge was to balance on my spiky stiletto heels clad in a straight-jacket like corset (aka my bunny costume) with whale bones digging into my stomach and rib cage and my head weighed down with the weight of several hairpieces for what seemed like an eternity, eight to ten hours still appearing cheerful and bunny-like while frantically trying to keep up with the ever mounting chips that were being continually swept into the apron after each spin. This was no mean feat. In the beginning I felt quite overwhelmed and when I lost ground trying to keep up, panic would set in and I would question my ability to be a card-carrying croupier. In the first few weeks, my back ached, my feet throbbed, my beautifully manicured nails broke (no doubt the Bunny Mother would have something to say at my next inspection) and my fingers hummed with pain.

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Below are some excerpts from the book:

Acquiring a vehicle sent my dad on a new path. He started to tinker with the mechanics of car engines. He would spend hours outside in the Close with his sleeves rolled up, hands covered in oil, head hidden under the bonnet, tightening or removing parts of the post office van’s engine. There was one time that we had the majority of a car’s engine disassembled and arranged on newspaper in the centre of the kitchen floor. We walked around it for weeks, trying to avoid bumping into it and getting grease all over our clothes. In the end it was my mum who threatened not to cook dinner if it wasn’t removed. My dad finally had to move it. Over the years, this new hobby morphed into a viable profession, when my dad quit his job as a glazier, to run his own business as a mechanic and body repair shop. He rented his first premises underneath some railway arches in nearby Strood.  (p. 7)

• • •

Sometimes I amazed myself how fearless I could be. Not that long ago I would not have had the courage to step outside of my safe little world. I don’t know where this bravado came from; I just hoped it wouldn’t get me into trouble. Smile’s building was security controlled and a very nice gentleman met me at the door and delivered me to the third floor. I timidly knocked at the door and was summoned to enter by a voice from within. The minute I stepped inside I took in the luxuriant surroundings, very elaborate and ornate furniture and plush carpeting; large art canvasses decorated the walls. Sitting on cushion ladened couches were Smile, another Arab gentleman who was introduced as Majid and a pretty dark haired girl called Karen who I presumed was his girlfriend.  (p. 107)

• • •

Fifty or more years have passed since the brutal murder of Sharon Tate by the Manson family. I recall in vivid detail our fleeting acquaintance and our brief but open-hearted rapport. I wonder how history might have been changed had she and her child lived. Would her great love for Roman have been strong enough to keep them together and happy? (p. 131)

• • •

As I sipped on freshly squeezed orange juice and nibbled on delicious dainty pastries I asked Smile what the distant sounds were that I had heard during the night. It had sounded like fireworks being let off somewhere a ways away. His response took me completely by surprise. . . . It was the sound of exploding mortars from the ongoing Arab-Israeli conflict. I hadn’t realised that I was visiting a country that was on the verge of war.  (p. 189)

• • •

I don’t remember much of supposedly the most exciting and happiest day of my life. I do know that I was there because I have photographs to prove it. Looking back over the years it’s easy to see where it all went wrong. Like the game of baseball in my new adoptive country: if you have difficulty getting on first base, don’t expect to get a home run. (p. 206)

• • •

I didn’t think there was ever going to be a job for me, not in the casino anyway. I had been brought to Sierra Leone under false pretences.  (p. 241)

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