Polly Gillespie - The Misadventures of Polly Gillespie: Reports from a Riotous Life

We are often told to indulge our inner child: Let her free! Embrace her!

The trouble with me is that little Polly, my inner child, already has free rein, and possibly needs to be lassoed and hog-tied, as opposed to letting her spread her fairy dust and sunshine catastrophe sprinkles everywhere.

As normal people grow up, I believe, that little wild child moves aside for the teen, and then the teen moves aside for the adult, and then sometimes, sadly, the adult moves aside for the child again. In my case the child didnt move aside for anyone. The child stood, hands on hips, with a ponytail, missing front teeth, a shift frock and gold jandals and said, You shall not pass!

And so they didnt, and now here I am, of uncertain and indeterminate age, still wrestling with life like a five-year-old wrestles with her big sister losing horrendously but giggling the whole time.

I find giggling and hysteria are the best way to barge through life. Im not really a barger, though. My mum had nicknames for me and my sister Jeanette: I was Bumblefoot and Jeanette was Barger. Today, as I topple over tree stumps, and fall over while Irish dancing to entertain my children, I realise that I really havent changed at all. Once a bumblefoot, it appears, always a bumblefoot.

The inner child, eh? Those of you reading this have to decide if your inner child has been caged and is banging on your soul, begging to be let out to play, or if youre like me and your kid is out the gate and running free in the garden of life. Perhaps your child is firmly holding the hand of older you. At times older you takes the lead, then squeezes the hand of little you, and you play and laugh and dive down deep into goofy. That is the person I wish I was. Id love to be walking hand in hand with an adult, but a combination of genetics, my synaesthesia (see its a thing) and my upbringing have made it incredibly difficult to even imagine what the grown-up me looks like.

If I try to imagine her, I see a woman in a 1940s woollen suit with a hat and sensible shoes. Who the hell is she? Why cant I simply see the real grown-up Polly? Sometimes when I look in the mirror I get a huge shock to see someone not only grown up, but with grey roots peeking through and a frown line that Botox has allowed to remain. (Bad Botox do your job!)

Do you look at other people, as I do, and wonder how they manage to look so sorted? So in charge of their lives? Do you want to go up to them and say in a hushed voice, Hey excuse me for being so forward, but you look like you know the secret. Can you give me a clue?

I often look at people and imagine them in their homes, with their bills all paid and their lawns all mowed. They are watching an All Blacks game or a good old British drama on a very large-screen TV. There is the smell of something wonderful cooking, they have friends coming over (therefore the housework must be done) and they are casually sipping a beer, bourbon or wine. Theyre not necking it, throwing it back or gulping their beverage theyve been sitting on the same drink for an hour. Next to them theres a dog, quite likely a Labrador or golden retriever. There are pictures of family on the mantel, and tasteful art on the walls. I definitely imagine some amaru stone detailing and a pile of magazines Ive never read, like