Art. I recently bought a Sean Scully painting, I have a Damien Hirst, a Tracey Emin, a Polly Morgan snake and a couple of Jonathan Yeos.

My car. I don’t even drive, but I bought a Toyota hybrid for my assistant.

Diamonds for my wife.

An old camper van that has cost me more in repairs than my house, my wedding and all the holidays I’ve ever been on.

Being a salesgirl in a baby shop where the others said things like, “He’s Jewish, but she’s American.” Also, after college, being a waitress in London, and trying to make change in the old money of shillings and pence.

I haven’t done it yet.

Since hostile people still call me a former Playboy Bunny, even at 82, I probably shouldn’t have done that in my youth, even to write an exposé. And since a couple of times they’ve also referred to me as a former CIA agent, because I went to two Soviet-era communist youth festivals, I probably shouldn’t have done that, either. Yet if I hadn’t done both, I might have judged other people by such empty symbols, too.

First a horse rancher, then a dancer.

Feeling you want someone else’s welfare as much and sometimes more than your own.

As someone who left the world around me a little kinder and less hierarchical.