I
was born (obviously) and brought up in Wolverhampton, along with
my two younger sisters. From an early age I kind of realised we
were different because my dad was Indian and my mum is white. While
this wouldn’t strike most people as very strange these days,
that wasn’t the case back in the Sixties and Seventies when
I was growing up. I can still remember the shocked looks on people’s
faces when we all went out together.
As a kid, I
was always either reading or writing. My mum claims I could read
fluently by the time I was three and I loved books. One of my best
memories is of my dad taking me into a big bookshop and telling
me I could have whatever I liked. I still have one of the books
we bought that day, a collection of stories about children around
the world.
I also wrote
hundreds of my own stories about all kinds of subjects. My sister
still goes on about one I read to her, which was about an inn sign
where all the painted characters come to life at night. When I was
in my late teens, I had a big clear out and chucked all my stories
away. I really regret that now.
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