Writing is part of who I am. I have kept diaries for as long as I can remember. It all started under a duvet, with a pen, a piece of paper and a torch. I must have been about 7 years old – although I think my mum said at the age of two, I’d sit and scribble, and when she asked me what I was doing I’d reply saying: ‘I write’. I am fuelled by a need to put pen to paper. Throughout my childhood, I spent hours in my room, scribbling away mundane thoughts in my diary, writing stories, poems, plays or designing my own little magazines. It is…
I hoard sentimental clutter. I kept a candle for 20 years because my friend gave me as gift from her holiday in Marrakesh. I refused to chuck it out even after it had melted when I left it next to a radiator. Soft toys from my childhood, old school projects, souvenirs and even birthday cards. I have a book full of ticket stubs of special places I have visited or gigs that I went to. Pebbles from beaches, plane tickets, Spanish pesetas, travel books from 2007. Anything that holds a precious memory I am pained to give up.