I am a literary grub. Not a bloated, grotesque white beastie that looks like it will pop, no, I’m more like a naive furry one that is crawling very tenderly across a narrow bookshelf. If the actual writing process was bewildering, I’m now lurching into a mysterious terrain wearing three pairs of Wellington boots – bright, multicoloured boots. And yet in the midst of this exalted new world I still feel inconspicuous. This is surprisingly comforting. I’m groping blindly forwards and my mouth is still developing. I can only chew on the odd clumsy word; words which I’m sure make little sense to others. So I’ll cling on to this shelf awhile and ponder, hoping someone might just pass by and chat to me . . . or devour me . . .