I’m sitting in A&E with my 94-year old father. It’s Sunday morning and we should be at church. Dad arrived via ambulance through the green fields on the approach to Ipswich on a bright, clear, sunny day, the endless Suffolk sky washed clean by rain storms overnight.
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Writing What You Know
They say that everyone has a novel in them. As a factual freelance writer, I wasn’t sure that I did, but a couple of years ago, I had a strange experience. Navigating the wiggly road from Worlingworth to Framlingham, a sentence dropped into my head. “I am a very lucky little girl.”
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Hitting the high notes
I can’t sing. You know when people say that and you’re expected to disagree with them. “Yes, you can. You have a beautiful voice. You shouldn’t be so modest.” No. Honestly. I really can’t. The only time I sing (and I use that word advisedly) is in the car by myself with the windows tightly closed and on the way to gymnastics in Ipswich on a Monday night with my 11-year old daughter. She doesn’t mind, or doesn’t notice that I can’t carry a tune.
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How I Became A Writer
Let me take you back in time to Theydon Bois County Primary School, nestled in Epping Forest, West Essex. It’s 1972. I’m six years old, sitting in Mrs Camus’s class. I’ve just made a fantastic discovery. Using our standard issue chunky crayons, I’m able to create a pleasing shade of pink on my drawing by using first red, then white.
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