Ever since I was 6 years old I wanted to be an artist, and though at times during growing up my ambition wavered and I favoured being a cowboy, a nun or a vet I mostly stuck to the idea of being an artist. Secretly I wanted to write also.
At school favourite subjects were all wrapped around stories, like history, or drawing, like geography.
I used to get told off for drawing and dreaming. Now I get paid for it, so looking back all that drawing and dreaming was career development.
Now I live in a storybook cottage by the sea. I have two children who wear me out but are wonderful companions as well as being sources of inspiration, two dogs and five cats, including one called Maurice, who, had we lived 200 years ago would have got me burnt as a witch.
I spend my days reading, writing, drawing and colouring in and listening to music and the radio, walking on the cliffs by the sea and finding stories in the landscape, in the warm breath of the wind, in the odd snippet of over heard conversation, it the slant of light as it falls from the sky and in the whisper of the waves as they pull and pebbles on the beach.
I love poetry, the flight of hawks and owls, the colour of the feathers on a rooks back, bluebells, harebells, birds eggs in moss lined nest cups and much much more.
There are days when I love to paint, watching the colour spread from brush to paper, making an image grow out of the careful manipulation of coloured water. And there are days when I get fed up with it all and run away to watch the birds fly, or sulk somewhere and read a book.
As well as illustrating books I also paint for exhibitions.