Reading to understand myself and others has been in my blood since I first examined the picture of the British Houses of Parliament on the bottle of brown sauce, that accompanied the Irish family fry, and persuaded a sibling to read the text. Words in my ear lingered on the hint of tamarind, garnered from the former Empire in the East. Every image and word thereafter became material for opening onto other worlds including the orderly, English world of Dick, Dora and Nip in the first school reader.

When reality failed to make sense or measure up to my dreams, my bedroom provided a dissolving wall, where characters, created by me, could do whatever they wanted to. The kitchen hid a trap door, under which lived angry monsters, who had the power to whisk off a loving adult and send a monster replica. They could reverse the change just as quickly. I am still committed to recognising the potential monster in each of us. For me it is a step towards de-programming the codes used by the forces that corrupt our collective power.