Someone I love died. She wasn’t the most likeable person - she didn’t want to be liked, probably didn’t want anyone to notice her at all, and for that reason I won’t name her. Let’s call her… Not I.

She was a writer. In my opinion, one of the finest writers of our age. In the last weeks of her life we went through some of her old stories together. She seemed amused by my enthusiasm for them and, after her death, I found she had left these stories to me.

I believe they should be shared.

I’ve included some of her drawings too, even though I know she’d curse me out about it, but you can’t get a full picture of her without them. These stories are unedited, and – in her words – rough and dumb. In mine - they’re precious.