If anyone needed proof of how far out the right hand side of my brain really is, read this. I found it scribbled on paper in a huge pile of drawings/incessant ramblings/old chewing gum;

"I was bestowed upon Melton Mowbray from on high as a mere mortal toddler. Any of you lucky Meltonians over the age of 20 would have felt the sonic boom of my touch down (I'll be frank, I was an incredibly fat baby, words can't even begin to describe my excess knee flab).

I will admit my very early work left a lot to be desired, but hey, I was five. My indecipherable doodles are still pretty much indecipherable, but of a better quality I feel. Now I can address my squiggles and say "Ah, that line is very good. Yes, I'll have another Jaffa Cake for that line." Etc etc. (It's a carrot and stick system I've perfected over the years, only it's called a "Jaffa or no Jaffa" system). "

Oh dear. Actually, while walking down the stairs yesterday I found myself muttering to my various characters in each painting I passed on the way down. Promising one he was in fact my favourite and we had a special bond, but keeping my voice down so the previous one didn't hear, as I had promised her she was my new special one. Hmm. By the time I reached the bottom step, I was seriously considering the possibility I may in fact be a little bit mad.

I do worry about myself sometimes.