This seems to be a recurring theme (far too often?) in notes for my graphic mystery/memoir. From the age of three I occasionally stayed at my grandmother’s house in Nottingham, periods coinciding with my mother disappearing, then turning up with another sibling. Nothing was ever explained. Sometimes my cousin stayed there too, causing disturbances in the night when she levitated. Sadly I never witnessed this directly as when I was woken up by her thuds and cries I was forbidden to get out of bed and investigate. ‘It’s only your cousin,’ I was told, ‘she’s floating again.’ Much later I asked her if she still floated occasionally? ‘Oh no,’ she told me, ‘not after I found Jesus, he doesn’t like that sort of thing.’
This is a conversation I overheard between a vicar and my grandmother. Did the vicar really look like this? Who knows? I was hiding under the table, eavesdropping. Sometimes my characters seem to have a life of their own, and have insisted on having a voice (or indeed, their own book, like Robotina). Last week I found this doodle, drawn on a crumpled paper napkin, in my coat pocket whilst waiting for a friend. Can’t actually remember drawing it, but I’m glad the vicar has had a career change …
