A retelling of a dramatic moment on a Bavarian mountainside where I had a showdown with destiny. Sloppy racial profiling, Richard Burton, couture overcoats, and artisan Kirsch cups made for thrilling evening.

A story about a love, my ultimate love, my gold-standard love. The love I measure all other loves against. I was sat in my bar last Friday when a song came on that picked me up and threw me into the past, into a time when a wonderful young man taught me how to love.

A story my grandma told me, many years ago in a Punjabi garden, has been whirring again in my head for the last two weeks. It has been gobbling me up. I needed to do something with it. I need to help, somehow. But all I can do is talk. So, I hope in retelling it I can do some good

Everything is going to be just fine, darling. The young of Europe are revolting, and in a good way. They are wired for tolerance. We old folk will be saved by their kindness.

A handsome devil wandered into my bar. My flirt offensive was about to be unleashed, until he hurled himself across my red lines.

I turned forty-six. A horrible number. But I am fine with getting older. Time is, however, running out on this life. I have so much more to do. So many versions of me are yet to be lived. So many wild imaginings to make real.

My dear darling friend is suffering from a horrid disease, in silence. No one wants to hear about female reproductive health issues and the devastating consequences of some of the associated illnesses. Well, tough bananas, I'm speaking up. Talking is all I can do for my wonderful friend.

Someone I know is in a mess. If I intervene I risk so much. The peace that cushions me would evaporate. But they might be rescued. What to do? How far does one go? Gosh, it's a conundrum for the ages.