Becky Bradford

My mum was horrified when the nurse placed me, a tiny crumpled newborn, in her arms. I had a shock of black hair that stuck upwards from my head like a loo brush and an enormous angry birthmark that covered my forehead in a V. Now, the V could have been for victory (and later, my fat face squashed above layers of wobbling, pre-toddler chins, there was an uncanny resemblance between me and Mr Churchill) but I like to think that it was my way of giving the two fingers to the world. It was October 1967, the flowers were dying as the summer of love wilted into autumn, and I was already anticipating the angry scream of punk that would both fuel - and provide the musical backdrop to - my teenage angst.

You see, according to family mythology, I was born with middle child syndrome. OK, my younger brother wasn't yet so much as a twinkle in my father's eye, but from the moment that I let out my first blubbering yell, I knew that the demon Tiny Tears destroyer was in hot pursuit. With a chip on my shoulder big enough to end world hunger, I stomped my way through my early years with a look of unflinching determination stamped upon my face. It seemed that nothing was going to stop me!

Now I don't know what happened between those early toddlers years and adulthood, but at some point this awesome beast-of-a-will of mine ran off with its tail between its legs, curled over in whimpering submission, where it has been chasing rabbits in its sleep ever since.

Which brings me, somewhat circuitously, to hagsharlotsheroines. Included here amongst these stories are some real die-hard, bolshy broads, who broke the mould and lived their lives according to their own rules. And my theory is (and I need you with me on this one) that if only I had had these intelligent, dynamic females as role models, rather than the union crushing, public utility selling Iron Lady, well, who knows what dizzy heights I could have risen to? All right, the analogy is a little weak, but with only Baroness Thatcher and Queen Liz as representatives of powerful women to aspire to - well, it's no surprise that so many of us unfortunate enough to hit puberty during the eighties turned to punk rock and white lightning cider for salvation.

What I am trying to explain, in my usual convoluted way, is why I started writing these stories - or more specifically - how I got so hooked. For someone like me, these histories are manna from heaven, tales so fabulous that the job of writing them is already half done. Added to this, there is the discovery of extraordinary female role models that I have found so lacking until now. And so I have changed from a skinny, anaemic waif, half starved from lack of sustenance, to a glutton, a devourer of stories, always hungry, always ravenous for more.

All this talk of food is making me peckish. So let's get back to the feast…

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Helen Kim Laura