When I was 7 years old my parents divorced. In the aftermath of this I lived with my Grandfather for a couple of years, until my mother met somebody else and I went to live with my new stepfather in a strange town. With all this upheaval so young in life I became a very anxious child. I felt like I didn’t belong at home and my stepfather and I had an uneasy initial relationship. By the time I was 10 I was a regular visitor to my local library and spent most Saturday mornings there hiding away.

One day as I was browsing the shelves I came across ‘The lion, the witch and the wardrobe’ by C.S. Lewis. I took it home and quickly became absorbed in the tumultuous adventures of Lucy, Susan, Edmund and Peter – after all they were evacuees just like me. The whole idea of finding a magical world inside a wardrobe was fabulous; I spent too much time afterwards inside my own wardrobe tapping on the back, burrowing through clothes, hoping to reach Narnia myself. I longed to have tea and crumpets with Mr Tumnus in front of his cosy fire. I even wished to be fed delicious Turkish Delight by the evil and beautiful Witch. This fantasy sustained me through the awkward reality of my own displaced life.

In adulthood I discovered that the book was a religious allegory. This disappointed my slightly, but I don’t mind too much as the book provided me with many hours of wonder, pleasure and comfort.

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