I was expecting a book that chronicled Rayson’s life as a doyenne of Australian theatre. There are brilliant accounts of her days at VCA drama school and performing on the tram to Mont Albert. From there the memoir becomes a series of anecdotes that roam freely over embarrassing moments, crises, and epiphanies, capturing vivid snapshots of Melbourne from the 1950s to the present. Many chapters enjoyed a first outing in the Age or HQ magazine, and have been reworked. All shine, but it is in new pieces that the master storyteller excels: ‘Mrs Lewis’, ‘The Dinner Party’, and ‘Car Rage’ are beautifully structured and articulated, not to mention hilarious.

‘it is in new pieces that the master storyteller excels: ‘Mrs Lewis’, ‘The Dinner Party’, and ‘Car Rage’ are beautifully structured and articulated, not to mention hilarious’

Rayson reels you in with her story-telling. You travel the world through her eyes. She woos you with descriptions of food, describing her cousin’s bouillabaisse thus: ‘One mouthful of this broth and you are wandering the ports of Marseille reckless with desire and danger.’ She is passionate and frank, unafraid of talking about having a mole removed from her vulva or suffering a urinary tract infection in Seville.

Her gift for dialogue breathes life into her family portraits. Her mother and father hold centre stage in childhood memories of Brighton and Sorrento. Her husband, Michael Cathcart, is onstage throughout, a co-star in this re-enactment of her life. The reader is bound to feel included, like a guest at their dinner party, entertained by the post-prandial stories and this generous and playful host, taking time off from the serious business of writing drama.