I was born a long, long time ago on a council estate in a magical place called Harrow Weald, where all children were sent to Blackwell to be classified and graded. I was ranked low because of a condition called dyslexia which makes me see in a way that others don’t. I spent my spare time in the bluebell-carpeted forests of the weald, which harboured mysterious creatures and space aliens, and whispering mists, and the ghosts of Grims Dyke whose mournful songs rustled autumnal leaves. Learning to be normal took more and more of my time until, with a cunning mixture of hard work and bluff, I increased my ranking from low to high, passed exams and became an adult with a respectable career.
All that time, I kept the characters and fantasies of the weald secret.