I believe in magic, and in the writings of Lewis Carroll. My favourite words of the latter are, perhaps not surprisingly, those of one of his nonsensical poems, Jabberwocky. My third belief is the power of words in general.

I accept many other impossible things as being true, especially before breakfast, when hunger confuses my brain. However, my opinions about these do not stand the test of time as solidly as my primary beliefs. Upon careful analysis, it becomes obvious that I have no problems believing in obscure or difficult things, it is reality that I find much trickier. I have never been over fond of reality, as generally I find that it spoils the line of life. Thus, in my opinion it is to be accepted only in moderation. For example, I am sparing in my reading of nonfiction, much preferring outlandish offerings, the more outlandish the better.

This is why I believe in the texts of Lewis Carroll, where you are brought to decide for yourself what each word is intended to mean. My reticence towards confronting reality means that where possible I try to avoid over-exposure to news programmes in any form: television, radio, newspapers etc. finding these to be generally unpleasant, biased, and slow to evolve; in a word, depressing. This is without even considering modern social media outlets, which I estimate to be a total waste of time.

Taking account of my extremely strong belief in magic, I think I can best be described as walking outside of the spheres of the current world and time. I live essentially inside my head, with very few external needs. The only thing I find truly unfortunate in life is that whilst I believe in magic, I lack the skills needed to practise it. Thus, I am limited to attempting to weave a form of magic with my words, hoping that as time progresses my skills are becoming more sharply honed. Certainly, I write faster as time goes on, the words jostling each other in a race to flee my mind and reach the paper. Furthermore, I have the impression that more and more often it is the right word that escapes my brain, to land in the right place.

Now, it is time to consider how my beliefs impinge on my daily life. Most of the time my life is extremely simple, as though I live in a cave, and I keep it well-regimented; I do not like change or variation. I have had a long-standing love-affair with books that has stood me in good stead for my whole life to date. However, I have decided that now is the time to release all those that I have been holding captive for many years. I am starting over with a more varied repertoire. This time, I will adopt at least some foreign language books, since I claim to be bilingual. I will also make room on my bookshelves for large print books. I know that this may seem a trivial point, but with increased age, and being linked to a computer screen full-time, my eyes are not as penetrating or accurate as they used to be. Spending all my time using a computer is bad for me, especially as I suffer from technophobia. Fortunately, this is not permanently aroused, otherwise I don't know how I would function. Nevertheless, on a bad day I struggle, and am happy to revert to the good old tools from my schooldays of a pen and paper. Thus, perhaps I could be described as anguishing, or languishing, in a state of arrested development.

Apart from reading, I spend my time writing. I began this very early in life, having kept a diary for as long as I have been able to read. This serves both to establish the time-line of my life, and to flex my writing muscles on a daily basis. Furthermore, I have always been a great one for writing letters, loving the feel of a fountain pen flowing over a sheet of paper. I derive enormous satisfaction from this form of communication, and I mourn what is now becoming something of a lost art. Since my children have grown up, and I am more or less on my own, and left to my own devices, I have become more adventurous in my writing. I am a Jack-of-all-Trades: will write on any subject, any length, any time limit. But boy, as a singer said last night about his craft, "it's such fun."

If I get bored of one topic or bogged down in a minefield of poor syntax, similies, metaphores, or other linguistic hazards, I have an endless list of things I might want to consider writing about. I am extremely lucky, as writing prompts just seem to crawl out of the woodwork in case of need and bite me on the nose. I don't really know where they appear from, but every time it looks as though the ideas might be going to dry up, another prompt appears like a mushroom in the forest in the autumn. I have learnt better than to query this beneficence, I just smile sweetly, unclog my fountain pen, and make the most of it.