My name is Fi and I talk to myself.

Well, to be honest, I talk mostly to inanimate objects and reserve self-talk for those occasions when I need a good telling off (obviously I am the only person allowed to criticise me). Recent conversations have included a remonstration with the sea when it surreptitiously lapped a wave onto the prom and over the tops of my trainers, words of gratitude to the trees that had been holding up my hammock for the night and a discussion with a crow that was trying to eat chewing gum.

I am hoping that this recently more noticeable tendency isn’t a sign of middle age, Christmas stress or fluctuating hormone levels, rather that it is an outward demonstration of my writing creativity and quirky, but entertaining brain. I have heard tell there is a part of the brain called the caudate nucleus, which becomes more active in expert writers. Is my caudate nucleus perhaps calling to me? Is it trying to tell me that I am now an elite writer? Maybe so but that still doesn’t explain why I recently found myself talking to a lamppost as I attempted to park my camper van.