FEBRUARY 1966: I am on a skiing holiday with my stepfather. I wake up in the night because he begins to gently stroking my cheek. I run to the toilet and lock myself in there until the morning. The next day it is as if nothing had happened although something awful has happened to me.

MAY 1966: I proudly show off my badge collection. My father's friend offers me a hundred crowns for it, I refuse. My father beams and tells his friend that I am going to give him the collection as a present. He pays me for it afterwards.

AUGUST 1966: During a young people's protest march, I see the police arrest one of my classmates. It is claimed that he resisted arrest and kicked, bit and spat at the police. I make a witness statement that this was not the case and am then myself accused of breach of the peace. The reason: The demonstration was over by that point and I no longer had a right to be there. This does lasting damage to my faith in authority and politics.

NOVEMBER 1966: My first son is born in America. With its long chrome counter, the reception area of the maternity ward feels like a butcher's shop. The fat nurse wears green overalls and a shower cap.