I’ve been thinking about this gift my mum gave me when I was about nine. She picked me up from school one day and handed over two sheets of typed paper. ‘I wrote you a story today,’ she said. ‘At work.’ I was smitten before I’d read it – first of all, it had been typed on a...

... computer and then printed, and in the mid eighties, this was as glamorous as it got. It looked Officially Like A Story. The machinations of the plot are a bit lost in the mists of time, but I remember it was basically a story about worms. They were all friends....

and they had hats. The hats were hugely important. They might have had cold heads, before they had hats? I think the cold heads were a huge trigger point. Then they got hats. Some were pink, some were blue. The hats made them happy, and then the story ended.

It wasn’t complicated, or long, but it was funny, and it was written distinctly in my mum’s voice. I loved it. I remember distinctly she didn’t belittle her own work. She didn’t say ‘It’s just a little story about some worms.’ She said: ‘I wrote you a story today.’

I saw her differently after that. I saw her as a writer. I realised anyone could be a writer. And in some way, that sowed the seed for me. I know we always say that if we want children to be writers, they should be read to, a lot, and they should see us reading and enjoying it...

- and I believe that passionately. But I also think that if you hand your child something YOU have written – and it can be super simple – as a gift, it can make writing or creativity seem instantly accessible. She gave me that, that day.

Once in a while we’ll talk to each other about that story (sadly lost.) We both go a bit misty-eyed when we think about it. I’ll never forget those worms, or what they taught me; that a woman could become a writer, just like that, because she wanted to.