One of the things I love best is listening to people talk about their childhoods. The smallest details thrill me. I can almost taste the crispy bacon sandwiches, hear mums raise their voices over suspicious smoke-infused clothing, visualise the garish neon of a 70s wild child and suffer a broken heart with stories of broken homes. I suppose it isn’t strange really, especially with my love of story telling and the way I tend to immerse myself in music, literature, film and most importantly people’s lives. I've always partially lived in my own dream world. I also have a thing for names. It’s always easier to picture a Frank, Julia or a Steve than simply 'mum', 'cousin' or 'nan'.
