|Me aged three|
It is all I ever wanted from life. From the earliest days, I understood that I was a fairy. Being a fairy was not something I aspired to. I was one. I, Antonia Rolls, aged about three, was just like Tinkerbell. You could not tell us apart. There was something so right about being a fairy, with a fairy's right to wear anything that glittered and do whatever she wanted. My aunt had some spare material from a dress she had made for herself, a deep turquoise nylon with silver glitter threaded through it. I wrapped myself in this and at five years old, I knew I was magnificent. I drew pictures of fairies with wings and tutus on all my books, on the walls of my bedroom and wherever I could get away with it. It was my world. I believed in the magic, the beauty, and the wonder of fairies; no wonder I decided to be one. If, of course, I did decide. At the time, I had no doubt that I had been born one.
|The real thing|
|The Cyrenians on a very good day|
|Not a fairy so much as a |
witch living in a bicycle
|Probably all of you reading this blog|