I don't read many graphic novels but the ones I have, I love. If you're unsure of the correct terminology - is this a graphic novel or a comic book - here’s a description I’ve come up with from my quick internet search that hopefully clears this up.

For a few weeks at a time, I develop a regular habit of writing down snippets of conversation I hear, stories on the radio and various scenarios I see when I'm out and about. 

Memories can be slippery devils. They swim around my brain, waiting for a moment of capture, the moment when I need to reel one into my conscious mind to muse over.

The sweater took me the summer holidays to knit. I finished it in time for the start of term. At fifteen-years-old, my knitting expertise consisted of a couple of scarves and possibly a bobble hat.

It seems obvious right? You’re away from home, you feel some loss, even grief and realise you feel homesick. Is that all there is to it? Maybe. I wonder, though, if it might be more complicated than that.

For the past couple of months, I've been reading the novel Fayne by Ann-Marie Macdonald. At 736 pages it's a big book requiring a big commitment. Strangely I wasn't put off by its size. My daughters laugh at me when I describe movies as being 'okay, but too long'. I get fidgety in films that are longer than two hours.