Recently I have been exploring the possibilities of cramming a story about birds into space made inside old books to try to  get across the sense I have of birds living with us yet inhabiting their own world.  Stories belong in books, and books should be old, cloth bound, well-thumbed and beautiful. The books I use are about to be sent to landfill or I rescue them from boot-sales and charity shops, and generally those that have had print runs in their millions. I fill them with birds and dogs made from paper, old wellies, cocktail sticks, sweet-wrappers, old gardening magazines and pages from other discarded books. I’m still not all that comfortable about cutting up a book but it’s better than seeing them thrown away.

Along with the birds in my books you will occasionally find a small, flowery person.  This is Polly.  She used to live inside my head but increasingly she is telling her own stories.  She has some very odd ideas about birds.

WoodpeckersAnd then I started doing even sillier things with books…

Inside a book is the safest place to be

We jumped into a book and flew away

With words we can change the world