The stories we tell image

My grandmother was a fantastic storyteller with a particular knack for inventing ghost stories on the spot. Her fantasy creations bought to life worlds where men kept solid gold legs, skulls and other bizarre things under their beds and lived in long forgotten farmhouses in deserted corners of the Kalahari Desert.

Sleepovers at my grandparents’ house always involved me and my brother climbing into their bed, after agreeing the appropriate payment which usually involved making tea, and then listening to these stories that would make the trip back to our own beds a bit of a challenge.