My first memories are of Vancouver. Of self-changing nappies attacking me as I lay peacefully drooling. Of sitting on a potty pretty sure I’d got no idea how to do this. Of being the star performer in everything in kindergarten.

One by one my brothers and sisters arrived. Five of them. Which ideally should’ve taken the heat off of me, but actually just made me feel like the odd one out more and more. On my thirteenth birthday, amongst a great deal of unwanted action I’ll get around to presently, I came by this little banana tree. None of my family could understand why I spent so much effort on it, watering it and feeding it and finding out where it liked to stand. Or why the day after my birthday I got a paper round to earn cash. Or why I wanted to learn to play the guitar.

Or maybe dad did, but by then he wasn’t saying that much anymore. At least not to us kids.

From then on life was a constant struggle not to use Magic. I wouldn’t dare whisper a single word to my banana tree, or even wish for my fingers to be more flexible for an F-seventh. I didn’t always succeed. Like the time we went to the zoo and I accidentally freed the snake. Oh man. The grilling by the animal welfare people. The psychological assessments. The embarrassment.

Anyhow. We left Juno as she was saying good-bye to LA. It turned out to be a good-bye to the entire Pacific coast.