I was born in Gothenburg Sweden into a family of readers and writers. My father is a newspaper editor and columnist, as is my brother. My mother, who stayed at home looking after the family, furnished the walls of every room with shelves full of books. We were a family that read and discussed and whereas there were restrictions about what we were allowed to watch on TV, and comic books were discouraged, books were a different matter; basically, the rule was that my brother and I could read whatever we could reach. (It was a happy day when, standing on a chair, I got hold of Fanny Hill.)

Ours was a liberal and tolerant household but some sins, I had imprinted on me, were beyond the pale, book burning and censorship of the written word were two of them. Hanging on his wall at his office at the newspaper my father had a quote from Voltaire. Translated from French into Swedish and then by me, into English, it went something like this: I may well not agree with your opinion, but I will defend to the death your right to state it.

Growing up I was pretty well the standard embryo writer - you know the kind? Prone to daydreaming, constantly reading, feeling as if I were on the outside looking in, finding the world of books more relevant than the real world I lived in.

Aged nineteen I married a British naval officer and moved to England. Before the move I had had just one year at university so, arriving here, I had no idea of what I was going to do with my life. But not for long as my son was born the following year and three years after that, my daughter. Life as a naval wife was a mix of periods of loneliness and periods of great fun and adventure. But as we settled in the Hampshire countryside, having decided that following the fleet was not so practical with two school age children, I began to think about writing. I had always been a great trier outer of things, and it has to be said, also a great quitter, but almost the minute I sat down to write