HI
For years I’ve thought I didn’t really have a ‘thing’-no specific hobby, no distinct style: I’ve dabbled into any creative area I fancied at the time, worn whatever I liked, never really feeling like anything defines me. It’s only recently that I’ve realised that my ‘thing’ is my love of books. The one constant in my life. Some of my most distinct memories growing up revolve around what I’ve written or read. I remember being mortified at one of my first parents’ evenings at about 5/6 years old when my mum, unbeknownst to me, took a story I’d written at home and brought it with her. I sat horrified as my teacher read my inner most creative thoughts. I now understand mum’s motive in proudly showing her my development, and a 6-year-old writing in continuous prose with pretty accurate spelling is quite impressive. However, always being a private person, this profound embarrassment will probably stick with me for the rest of my life. A fonder memory includes me, at about 8 years ol