• What could I write?
  • Why had I even joined a writing class?

I looked around the room: Tired wallpaper was loosing its grip. Tea coloured stains advanced across the ceiling and down the walls, mapping out years of water damage.

Cardboard boxes, torn and overloaded with books, teetered in shambolic piles.

Lying amongst dogeared promotional boards and posters, dusty display stands held a few biros and mechanical pencils – long forgotten. A model Norman castle nestled in the disused fire grate, next to a large foam-board cutout of Mog the Forgetful Cat.

The sound of pencils whispering to the paper amplified, as each student made a start.

From my mug of tea, Miffy stared back at me, looking a bit dispirited. Her arms supported the simple outline that formed her head and ears. With only three marks for a face, a crosstitch mouth beneath eyes set far apart, this endearing rabbit took me back to my 1970s bookshelf where Dick Bruna was king. I remembered things that have lain dormant for decades – in such detail. Inspired . . .

I started to write . . .

  • Want to hear about my wonderful writing teacher?
  • And the best independent bookshop to visit in Hampshire?
  • Read about them in my next blog . . .