Why make things up?

My novel came to me in an instant: a nine-year-old boy, his mother’s empty bed, the messy house, the clues she’s left amongst the chaos. The story happened right there, where I lived, in a south London chimney-pot terrace; and right then, in 2012, in the waning glow of the London Olympics and the deepening shadow of the coalition government’s austerity policy.

BUT WHICH SELF?

Two bras

I’d thought I’d waft through the pre-publication weeks, trailing euphoria. Instead I went all nerve-wracked and insomniac. To promote my book, I needed to get myself in the public eye.

BUT WHICH SELF?

Evening Standard interview

    How #MeToo is inspiring a new era of feminist literature   Tamsin Grey is the latest writer in our new fiction podcast series, Underground: Tales for London   “I was interested in the idea of a young person adrift in the world, being approached by a man who seems really interested in her…

piece of polysterene

Getting ready for the old lot

Word went round that we’d definitely be getting new management. The old lot were all washed up. We were told to get the whole building decluttered and smartened up, making sure all traces of the old regime were gone. Scarlett, our team director, put Becks in charge. Becks is my line manager, but I’ve never…

Drones

To help our preparations for New Management, Scarlett decided we should turn our office into a War Room. She put a sign on our door that says SENSITIVE OPERATION DO NOT ENTER, and got us to push our desks together and lay a huge sheet of paper over them, on which we’re tracking our manoeuvres. Heather was…

election flyers

Election

It’s dark in our house, because of all the election flyers my son Dave 1 has stuck up on the windows. When he’s not sticking up flyers, he’s glued to the TV, channel-hopping for interviews and debates. He hasn’t said much for the past couple of years, but these days he’s become quite chatty, by…

earring on pavement

Lost shoes and earrings

Woken at 3am again, not by the lizard, but by a ping on my bedside table. Thinking it might be Scarlett, my boss, who has been sending me lots of messages since our Bellini evening, I sat up and reached for my phone. The message was from Wild Ma. It was a photograph, of a…