Learning to write has always felt like learning to understand myself. I’m English by nationality, and from a young age books were my first companions. At Pembury Primary School I loved practising joined‑up handwriting, the way letters flowed into each other. I still remember the moment I realised a comma meant a pause — I was reading Journey to the Centre of the Earth, and it felt like discovering a secret.
My childhood books were small treasures: a story about a cat called Jenny, a huge dinosaur book I tried to memorise, and The Wind in the Willows with its gentle illustrations. Mum used to send me to bed with instructions to read for half an hour, and I obeyed happily. I even walked and read at the same time — once crossing the bridge in Barnstaple as a teenager reading while I was walking.
At Pilton Secondary School I did well in English Language. By then I’d read Watership Down, which broke my heart, and The Hobbit, which I found difficult because the names and places felt so far from my world.
Pembury Primary was challenging, but it gave me my best friend. She had come from Bangladesh and was still learning English. Years later, after we’d lost touch, she visited me in Milton Keynes. Eventually I found her online — I’d always suspected she’d have a PhD, and she did. That’s how our friendship found its way back.
Now, decades later, I’m writing my autobiography. Sixty years of memories, books, friendships, and learning to write — all woven together. It feels like coming full circle.