My earliest reading memory
I’d say I’m four, nearly five. The year I start in school. I’m in our house near Dún Laoghaire in Dublin, sitting under the kitchen table, and I’m trying, and failing, to read a book of fairytales by the Irish writer Sinéad de Valera.
My favourite book growing up
I’m going to cheat a bit and choose a series – Richmal Crompton’s Just William books – so arch and funny and tongue-in-cheek. And exotic. The version of suburban Englishness she gently skewered was like something from another planet.
