As I wander (pun not intended) around my hometown in Yorkshire, UK, I hear the hushed whispers of the people I pass; token old guys (flat caps and whippets included), soccer moms on smart phones and little Timmy trying not to cop it in his Healys.

‘That’s Wanda,’ someone says, ‘she’s one of those… *pause for dramatic effect* … creative people!’

‘No!’ Everyone gasps.

‘Yes! Wanda’s what they call a Freelancer. She’s of a strange breed who are known to stay up all night writing stories, who justify reading, watching films and even daydreaming as “research and development”. She’s even been known to take naps, bubble baths and tea breaks in the afternoon because she worships at the shrine of “working her own hours”.’

‘Good Lord!’


‘I’ve heard that you’re never more than three meters away from a freelancer!’

‘Nothing you do or say will go undocumented. She calls it “material for her next project”.’

‘By heck, we’d better stay away from that Wanda.’

‘Yeah, she sounds well dangerous!’

And when I get home, feeling deflated and misunderstood, I sit down at my computer and think…


This is all going on my About page!