Shooting hosiery on top of an iceberg and getting my backside stuck to it.

Cockroach stamper at a dried-flower factory.

In my first job in film, a giant bloke dressed like a sumo wrestler asked me to get his G-string out of his arse. He said he couldn’t reach it.

I was a Harrods store detective for a day. I was so bad at it, one of the other detectives thought I looked suspicious and reported me.

First a horse rancher, then a dancer.

Sometimes when I’m on a plane, as I often am, the weather is rough and we’re worried about going down. I think: If I hold the hand of the person next to me, I’ll be holding everyone’s hand. Like my dear friend, the late Wilma Mankiller, principal chief of the Cherokee Nation, I want to know: I’m going to the other side of the mountain.

Dying just a millisecond before I was about to say something I really wanted the people I love to hear.

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

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.