, , , , ,

Long, long ago, I held in my trembling hand the very first payment I received for something I had written. It was not a work of fiction – being a light-hearted article about becoming a step-parent for the long-defunct women’s magazine SHE – but it made me think I could perhaps call myself a writer.

Instead of purchasing a yacht (the cheque was for a modest £80) I marked the occasion by buying a limited edition print by the French artist Alberto Mozziconacci which sits, to this day, on the wall of our dining room.

Years have passed. Decades. And I am still awaiting fame and fortune. Yet if I am ever feeling downhearted about my ambitions I only have to look at La Soupière to remind myself that as long as I am still writing I can call myself a writer.