For a while, my Mum has been gently suggesting that I might like to go through the boxes of my stuff that were under her stairs. This seemed important to her; after all, she needed the space. However, for me it felt less urgent. This was stuff that I'd not missed over the last twenty years. It could wait another day. But I went through it. Partly because I wanted to, and partly because she hauled the boxes out and said I wasn't allowed to leave the house until I had been through them. Many of the things that I had once chosen to keep went pretty much straight in to a black plastic bag, never to be seen again. Concorde ascii art printed from a dot matrix printer? It was the future once. Really. Other things were worth keeping though. And in there, I found my first published work. Second prize in a poetry competition. Aged four. Hopefully, I've got a bit better since then.