My dad conducted several IQ and personality tests on me while I was growing up. It happens, when your father is studing for his Masters in Psychology.

I loved it. I treasure those hours I spent with my father filling out questionaires, solving logic puzzles, pulling out obscure facts I'd learned. He was always so pleased when I ranked considerably above average for every test he threw at me. That was back in the days when I never had to study to do well in school, back in the days where my brain was a sponge that dribbled facts and stories every waking moment. Those days lasted until I was about 16, when suddenly I couldn't breeze through school on what I remembered from class alone.

When I was younger, though, the world continuously fed me everything I needed to know, and more. My mother was a primary school teacher, and she had shelves and shelves of books on every question a child could ever ask. I began reading young, and before I iht double digits I'd read throughout the history of the Tudors, gazed in fascination at Mayan calendars and poured over illustrations of the inside of an eyeball.

When the internet came, I was perfectly primed. Hours were spent pouring over scans of someone's old issues of Doctor Who magazine from the UK. Wave files were downloaded at a painfully low rate, volume on my tinny speakers set to max so I could just make sense of a fuzzy, glitchy soundbyte.

I enjoy nothing more than pouring over reams of information, diving into a sea of facts and research, and coming out with a summary at the end for my own use. Nowadays, visiting someone's blog is like consulting the oracles, interpreting their cryptic messages for my own unusual quests.

Ever since I was very small, I wanted to be a writer. To contribute to that enormous font of wisdom and comedy and fact-gathering.

So here I am. Practising.