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I grew up in the New Forest, studied French in Birmingham and Bordeaux, became a film scholar, dabbled with teaching, and finally moved to London. I share a flat with a little black cat, cook curries, and write stories.

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“It’s foggy,” Prancer said simply. “He needs you, Rudy.” In his lonely corner, Rudolph bit into his carrot. “Me? Old ‘Cancersnout’?” Donner trotted over, her harness tinkling. “We weren’t picking on you...” “When I asked to play Buckaroo, you said ‘Piss off, Bigfoot’s Bellend’!” “We were protecting you. We knew this day would come. You’ll need that resilience.” Sudden scratching at the door startled the reindeer. “Oh, Rudolph,” a reedy voice wailed, “with your nose so bright…” Donner stared into Rudolph’s pained eyes, over his bulbous nasal beacon. “You can do this. Become the legend you were born to be.”

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