I’m spending this weekend in the company of my mum. These are her hands. The same hands that nursed and nurtured me, fed me and played with me, performed innumerable services for me, great and small. The hands which taught me to knit, to sew, to embroider, to bake. The hands that stitched dresses for me and my dolls; erected fantasy dens in the back garden on long summer days; helped me create toy houses from cardboard boxes to give away to children who had no parents.

When my mum turned 70, I created a scrapbook for her: a scrapbook of 70 happy memories linking me to her. What took me by surprise, as I recalled the memories that would become the book, was that the overwhelming majority of them involved creativity. The happy memories I have of my mother are nearly all of her creating something for me or with me. No-one could ever doubt where my creative streak comes from.