My biography could be seen as unexceptional. I was born, a happy child, into a loving stable family. I grew up, worked hard but not too hard, went to university, worked in a betting office, taught for a while, met a good man, married and started to raise a family. My career blossomed when I returned to work after my children went to school. Suddenly I was more than I thought I would be. I worked hard, harder than ever, as I had a responsibility to others. I returned to work initially for one day a week. After three years I was running a small department at South Park College and after four, a much larger one at Prior Pursglove College. The years passed, my children went to university and moved south to pursue their careers. It is unexceptional biography - except for the stories in my head. An imaginative child, I grew up in Roker; my days in rhythm to the shipyard siren. At eight I moved to Teesdale, a world of wild exciting places. I read vociferously, discovered the joy of history and wove intricate plots involving people from the past. I was advised to apply to university. I continued to daydream, to concoct my stories. I made history teaching my career until the day I decided to stop. “What will you do?” asked my boss, astonished at my announcement. “I am going to write my stories,” I replied, “one of which has been simmering for some considerable time.”
