When I was seven or so, I developed an overwhelming fascination – albeit one tinged by a deep fear – with the children’s book, What Do People Do All Day? by Richard Scarry. I was one of those weepy, melancholy kids who other children are dispatched to pick on as though being called up for jury duty. I don’t hold any grudges. It was their duty to tease me – one of my abiding interests at the time was ventriloquism.
I was terrified of being left alone, terrified of the dark, scared of UFOs and, perhaps most trickily, stricken by the existential panic of not knowing what to do with myself. It seemed to me entirely possible that at any time someone was going to take a look at me, realise I had no idea how I was going to spend my days and permanently send me to the naughty corner of life (ie, I’d end up an accountant).
