When I was little my family lived in a house cut in half. Behind a blocked off door lived Milka, an elderly Russian lady who took pride in her precious front garden. I didn’t know the names of these flowers but I knew my front yard was a rainbow. My Mum called it our fairy garden and told me that every child has a fairy that lives on their shoulder, you couldn’t always see it but you could feel it. When I think back on that time of my life, I can see the fairies dancing, hovering above the flowers like angels saluting imagination. Of course there were no fairies, just a bunch of flowers and a story. That’s the magic of writing, you read a book or hear a story and it has the capacity to change your whole life, it doesn’t matter if it’s real or not, because in your heart you’re connected with it, and for the rest of your life, you believe in it.
