I must have been eight or nine when I was given an exercise book for Christmas with pictures of all my favourite Mr Men on the cover. I sat down in front of the Christmas tree and immediately started writing a story inspired by Mr Happy. But it felt wrong, perhaps because I wasn’t writing my own story. I still have this book with a huge cross struck through the first lines of my sad Mr Happy story. Just half a page in, I went with my family on our usual Christmas walk. I remember a crisp, bright morning climbing some old stone, moss-covered steps—once trodden by monks on their pilgrimage between their humble Priory and Wells Cathedral. As I neared the top of the steps, a little out of breath, my head was buzzing with a story featuring my brown, held-together-by-string teddy bear. He would have superpowers and his name would, fittingly, be Super Teddy (although a misspelling meant Supper, not Super Teddy, would save the world in my first story). I returned from my walk, put pen to paper and badly spelt words spilled out of me. It became the first of three stories I would pen with my sister starring all of our cuddly toys, from a moth-eaten panda playing an evil tyrant called Captain Vin, to a couple of handmade penguins who acted as comic relief in each of their adventures through time and space.

I’m constantly trying to recapture that beautiful moment of creation at the top of Monks Hill’s steps. I’ve more recently been putting my creative efforts into exploring theatre and performance, but I’ve also found the time to return with new vigour to writing short stories. I like to think I’m getting better at it. See what you think.

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