On a dreary November evening in 2014, I put on a curly orange wig, a hideous 1970’s shirt, matching medallion and I strangled a Dutch prostitute. A few years earlier, I put on a short skirt, very provocative lingerie, red stilettos and I murdered a man who was attempting to rape me.

Fortunately, these garish shoes matched my handbag and these strange events only took place within my imagination. Yet before you pat me on the head and shuffle awkwardly away, some uneasiness still remains.

Can such inventive thoughts be classed as sane?

A horrifying story recently emerged from Russia that cross-dressers could be banned from driving due to their muddled state of mind. So should this draconian view also be applied to writers? After all, our own bizarre thoughts might also be deemed as potentially distracting?

As a good citizen who seldom antagonises his fellow road users, I deem myself normal, but how am I regarded by those brave enough to read my books?

Just for the record, it’s not true that I wear decorative bonnets whilst developing my female characters or write smouldering sex scenes whilst smeared in raspberry jam and fig leaves.