As a child, I had fantastic imaginary friends. By fantastic, I mean out of the ordinary – there were wise green girls from Mars, strong, black-eyed Amazons – and a single Dove woman, with gentle eyes and wings woven from branches.

I was often called imaginative, but it wasn’t meant as a compliment. It was meant in a “reality-is-calling, get your head out of the clouds”, kind of way. It was meant to discourage me from believing in the impractical or impossible.