Why on earth would anyone call a book ‘Travels with my Poobag’?
It’s quite simple really. I had years of tummy troubles that forced me to use a temporary colostomy bag, but I never let it stop my adventures.
I didn’t discover the joys of travelling until I hit 40, after the traumatic separation from my husband. I suffered from anxiety and depression, and had to undergo many surgeries, but I soon learned that the one thing that always picked me up was foreign travel.
I like to think that I’ve kept my wicked sense of humour even after the deaths of my mother and husband, and it’s just as well, because the oddest things seem to keep happening to me; whether it’s being abducted by two men and a camel, getting lost up a remote mountain, finding myself left behind in a foreign bus station, or simply my constant clumsiness and bad luck getting me into some sort of local trouble.