Not Us Not us, us, who danced to Alexis Korner and The Chants, or the Steel Band at the Jacaranda and walked home after, singing, arm in arm through the Red Light District. Not us Not us, who danced and smiled and winked and thumbs upped each other over the shoulders of future boyfriends, who didn’t know it yet. Not us. Not us, who went to parties at 26a and ended up always, sitting on the floor with men we didn’t like very much, sharing their spliffs and listening to turgid conversation with increasing hilarity. Then laughing, laughing, laughing till they left in despair and we could stretch out and sleep where we were. Not us. Not us, who wandered through Europe without maps or money, or sense of direction. Who got lost a lot, but didn’t get raped or murdered. So far as we can remember. Not us, who charmed hoteliers into letting us stay for free. Who got up early (too cold to sleep), and cleaned the kitchen