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I remember noticing, when I had my babies, how much I liked them, and not just loved them, but I was really into them. I knew I was going to be curious about them and up for the mayhem ahead. But at the same time, I remember noticing I was relieved this thing was present in me. And I hadn't realised there might be a doubt.

It felt as if things were literally slipping through my fingers. Things were just streaming away from me. I lost my sense of humor. I'm still looking for that.

I began to understand my sensations, to know what I wanted, at around the age of forty - but only vaguely.

There must've been some part of me that wanted to make my mark. But there was never a defining moment.

I've had - I don't really know how to describe them, except moments of 'extrasensory perception' of some sort. I've also had sort of a 'white light' moment.

I was a really nervous kid. I was extremely sensitive. Incredibly perceptive.

We all have the need to feel special.

It is quite amazing what I didn't feel after a while. I didn't really want to feel things.

There was this moment, particularly after I had my first child, where I felt like, 'I don't know if I'll ever make a record, or if this is always going to be something just floating around in my head.'