The Flying Pig

I was born in the cradle of humanity, under martial curfew to a mother from South America and a father from South London. I spent the early years of my life travelling the world as I followed my father’s posting. Always the new kid in school, my imagination and family the only constants in my life. When my father left us, we moved in with my Aunt and her family in South London. Here my love of food and stories began. I would spend hours, playing in fantasy worlds that me and my cousins had created. Every night after bath time, I would write stories as my mother and aunt cooked up “wait and see.” At school inspired by my English teacher Miss Sharp, I would write poetry and small plays, which were acted out in front of the class. My gift of Dyslexia and Dysgraphia went undiagnosed until my mid-thirties, although it stopped me from studying English at an advanced level. It gave me the gift to hear words as pictures in my head, the images they form by their sound as much as their meaning. I moved into the sciences, and onwards to a career in construction. But my dream of writing never truly died; it just lay dormant. Inspired by my niece playing with a Euro “The Flying Pig” was born. I took a sabbatical from work to spend time concentrating on writing and finding my father. I returned home from Argentina with, an early version of "The Flying Pig" and twenty-four rejections; crestfallen, I went back to construction. Seven years later, just as the dream of being an author had started to die, my cousin kicked it alive again. To him, I am truly grateful.