Ten years ago, I took my eight year old daughter and her best friend to see a talk by Jacqueline Wilson. There, Jacqueline revealed she liked olives and that every time she had a book published, she would buy herself a ring. Interesting facts eh? At the end of the talk, we dashed into the queue for Jacqueline to sign our books. I did the dutiful thing and took photos of the girls while she chatted to them. At this point, I realised my eight year old daughter was of similar height to Jacqueline. As we walked back to the car with the girls rosy cheeked and clutching their signed books, we talked about how nice Jacqueline was in person. I joked that due to her small stature, I could’ve slipped Jacqueline into my handbag and stashed her under my daughter’s bed; if we fed her sandwiches all day, perhaps she would read us a bedtime story – Jacqueline Wilson on tap for your biggest fans. Ten years later and a prompt from my writing group, ignited this memory and led me to the scribblings of a