Iqbal Hussain

As a child, I would churn out pastiches of Enid Blyton books - pretty much how, I imagine, Enid herself wrote her vast oeuvre. When I wasn't writing, I'd be on my back, in the yard, looking up at the clouds, imagining them to be forests of puffy trees in which I could walk.

I'd accompany my dad whenever he went to an auction house. Aside from wanting a bike, I also coveted typewriters - I didn't mind how old they were, as long as they worked and would help me get my words down faster than I could write them. My oldest sister taught me how to touch type and I became even more prolific.

At university, I got involved with the student newspaper. I then came to London and took a postgraduate diploma in journalism. I worked for several years in children's and young women's magazines. Then I stopped writing and got a "sensible" job at a City law firm. I came back to writing about five years ago, rekindling my imagination, returning to fiction. The man became the child once more.