Whenever I give talks to children about my books they always ask who inspired me to be a writer. I don’t really think anyone did. I was playing complicated imaginary games inside my head before I could read, and as soon as I could write I filled many Woolworths notebooks with my wobbly printing. But if pressed, I say that E. Nesbit might well have been an inspiration. I loved her books as a child and treasured a biography about her when I was struggling to earn my living as a writer. It was a relief to know that she too had to resort to writing little magazine stories while nursing a crying baby at the start of her career. I admired her short hair, her Liberty dresses and her many silver bangles too, and her habit of having buns for tea every time she sold a story. A later, longer Nesbit biography informed me that Edith also had affairs with much younger men, lost her temper in spectacular fashion, and adopted a queenly manner, so I’m trying hard not to copy her too slavishly.
I’m lucky to live in the Sussex countryside, and love my village. We’ve entered into village life with enthusiasm. My partner was transfixed with joy when awarded two Firsts for her dahlias at the horticulturist society flower show, and our rescue terrier Jackson won the waggiest tail contest in the dog show. He loves it here too, as well he might. The pubs and tea shops welcome him and have been known to serve him a sausage on the house. We take him for many walks in the fields, up the hills and along by the river, but he particularly appreciates a trot along the esplanade at the nearby seaside.
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