"I've always wanted to write.
Me Dad was more practical doing things with his hands from rubbish he could scrounge. His garden - more a yard really - wasn't good for growing things on account of two gasometers just over the wall, so he built in it.
First came the concrete pond with waterfall and then houses, churches and the odd pub or two. It took him 15 dedicated years but in the end he was the proprietor of the finest model village in the whole country.
I contributed to the venture in small ways - carving little figures from balsa wood, wiring up the pubs so they lit up at night. I also - and this has to be said with a great degree of reluctance - donated a piano. It would be unfair to say that Me Dad smashed it up - some sort of comment on my music making presumably - but he dismantled it screw by screw and wire by wire and the parts became walls, windows and roofs.
Then I published my first novel. The local news agency, obviously excited by the news that a famous author was in their midst, arranged to interview me with photographer in tow. That day came and I was ready with my pose but they only needed one look at Me Dad's model village in which Me Dad was conveniently working.
He and his model village garden appeared on the front page the following week.
My writing fame was somehow buried inside the last page - sans photo and with misspelt name."
