An old one written from Melbourne 2 months ago. Now I’m in another place, and a completely unfamiliar culture: Athens, about to fly to London in a few days. London’s Russell Square at the tail end of the sixties and life in the late 60s has been written out of my mind. Nevertheless the subtext remains. I am putting this up resisting the temptation to change anything. Memoir is a rocky road .

Sitting, pausing, in a cafe Ardeer,Melbourne. A long way in time and place from that London hotel, whose name I cannot recall. A shabby hotel in an ungentrified Russell Square at the end of the sixties.

I’d just made it, just reached the enchanting land of freedom, music and hippiedom from a country that had just allowed the pill, where Bob Dylan was played in a few hidden bars, where T.V. was still a novelty.

In South Africa, Africans still supplied cheap labour and joined “ nie blankes” queues, sat on separate park benches, swam at designated beaches. Africans lived in segregated “townships”( a better term for locations) on the outskirts of cities and walked to work each day. Those women who were employed by people like my parents may have had a small pokey room in the backyard. They generally had to leave children at home cared for by grandmothers or older people and visited on the one day off. Men worked as in a variety of unskilled jobs and often supplied the large labour force needed in factories and mines. Mine workers lived on site.

Apartheid was still in force ( ended in 1994) Only when I left the country did I fully realise the inequity and absurdity of a policy which divided people on the basis of colour.

But this post is not about apartheid; I’m remembering a past long gone because I am thinking about belonging. Alongside all that is the related thought of the power to make decisions, the ability to act, the freedom to act. I have that now because of my education, money and the colour of my skin.

So here I am staring into the glass and suddenly those pictures of my life as a chambermaid in that hotel swirl up from the bottom.

Maybe I was thinking about glasses half full while the phrase “ through a glass darkly” runs through my head. Perhaps the women chattering next to me in Spanish or the recently viewed photos of beautiful Kortula are triggering the images of the past.

I’ve also just read here in this cafe about the lovely looking young man who has allegedly killed the old man in my now home town , Fremantle , Western Australia. Could I ? Could I even physically harm another person ?

Hence to the Russell Square Hotel. There I could have easily come close. Old Billy was the hotel drunk and long term renter and resident handy man ( and spy). We three worked at the hotel ; that is Edie the loud, funny, generous cook, Geraldine, Irish receptionist who had the driest and most cutting tongue, and me, a chambermaid . Billy was a thorn in all our sides . He lurked in dark corners and sprung out to catch one of us talking, snacking in the kitchen, chatting to a guest, and would repeat anything worthwhile to Mr Williams, the wishy washy owner/ manager.

Well that morning the three of us were sitting in what was euphemistically called a lounge telling stories and laughing. In came Billy. To be fair we probably turned our laughter and what we thought was wit, on him. I was the most conflictual. As I usually was. Couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “ Yes … do tell him , silly old man “ or something like that. I would have laughed in response to his warnings about wasting work time . He suddenly lunged towards me, fists raised, fast. I picked up a chair and flung it at him. It hit him hard . He came on towards me and this time I hit harder with the chair .

Billy fell to the floor holding his shoulder and moaning.

My blood was up. I ran to the phone and dialled 000 for police. That shut him up . They actually did arrive and cautioned him.

How does my story end ?

Mr Williams cautioned me: what would the guests think of his hotel, with police around?

I kept the job, my friends thought I was brave, and Billy kept away from all of us.

But looking back, I acted impetuously, escalated the conflict and could have seriously injured a silly old man. I was young .

And now I’m old I can peer into that glass, walk through a fairy-light lit door , and make a sort of sense of the past : write it into a story .

• The full phrase is “ For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face”. ( 1 Corinthians 13:12)