(Explicit language)

I’ve always had an overactive imagination. As a kid I would pretend to wave from my fairytale carriage at a procession of adoring subjects. Except it wasn’t a carriage, it was an old fridge. The only procession was a band of alley cats that used our yard as a litter tray. And my steed was Rusty the rocking horse. He wasn’t polished, dappled wood with flowing mane and tail. He was threadbare and lumpy and he had no eyes. I should really have named him Shitty, but aged 7, my vocabulary was somewhat lacking.

Sometimes I took books along for the ride. My favourites were Mrs Pepperpot, The Magic Faraway Tree, and Peter & The Wolf. During my teenage angst phase I retreated further into fiction, discovering Stephen King and Terry Pratchett. One day I stumbled upon The Cement Garden in the local library and I developed a penchant for the dark stuff.

I didn’t start writing until I was in my thirties, but I soon made up for lost time. I now have 11 novels under my belt and several collections of poems and short stories. I suffer from writer’s dysentery, the poor cousin to writer’s block. Recently I have found a new outlet for my creativity – I started a BookTube channel where I mostly gush about the novels of Drew Gummerson. I’m in the process of selling my house and moving back in with my parents. Aged 54. There’s going to be limited storage space, so I’ll need to re-home some of my books. There’s a space in the garden for my fridge though.