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Onwards through the gloop of words that’s moulded from my thoughts, making a mess on the page that was once pristine. The sharp capitals and the curly vowels remind me of homework times from not that long ago but with less concentration and for some reason they liked apple rice cakes as a reward. The pages stick to all that touch them, the blank lines awaiting letters from brain to finger tip as I sweep the crumbs off the dining table that is my makeshift ‘writer’s cave’. Just the one more hob-nob I kid myself as I put the kettle

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Clearing out the attic I found a pile of vinyls that belonged to my parents. The Beatles, Billy Jo Spears, The Drifters and an interesting collection of children’s songs with LP covers that would induce nightmares at a glance – Pinky & Perky anyone? I had no idea that a cardboard sleeve containing a plastic circle could conjure up so many memories but when I held one I was immediately transported back to the 70s/80s when my mum and dad said to their friends ‘just come back to ours’. Pineapples & pickles on sticks and a plethora of never-seen-before nibbles

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When I was a teenager, a few years ago now (quiet at the back), I wasn’t sure what to read once I had devoured Judy Blume, Virginia Andrews and the like. Back then there wasn’t the amazing young adult books that are available now so I headed into crime, not literally, I might add. Ian Rankin’s Rebus caught my eye. His interesting vinyl collection and witty banter pulling me in. And the rest, as they say, is history. Fast forward some decades and I am still devouring ‘lives of crime’ , continually adding new authors to my list of go-to’s

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