The no-longer secret diary of Ingrid Jo Boissevain, 1967

p r e s s   c o v e r a g e

f a c e b o o k    

i n s t a g r a m  

In anticipation of the 50th anniversary of the Summer of Love, I pulled my 1967 London Diary out of the closet, chopped it vigorously, and kept the best bits in. The result is a coming-of-age narrative combined with a portrait of a famous year.

I was 16 turning 17, living in a glass-and-cedar house designed, and built, by my English-Dutch  parents.

Too young to be "tuning in and dropping out" I was drawn by Swinging London, a train ride away. That spring, when bells and flowers became the thing, I felt alienated by the peace-and-love talk but sewed patches on my jeans. “Silly and stupid,” said Pa (who was otherwise quite liberal).

A grammar school girl with a posh streak, a stalker of French pop stars who learnt the lyrics, I was both bookish and trite. If the Sixth Form was a delight, the social life was a disaster, and when it came to boys, I experienced a mix (possibly quite normal) of lust and fear.