I was nineteen when I first got into print, having turned up at the London offices of a motoring magazine and asked what I needed to do to write for it.

“Send the editor some ideas,” they said, showing me the door.

So that’s what I did; and when the editor got in touch I was beside myself with excitement.

“Your letter is articulate and you showed some initiative in coming to see us,” he said. “Give me 1,000 words on the 1930s Fiat 500 - I want them in a week.”

Researching the story meant I learned about the engineering genius who created the car (known as the ‘Topolino,’ or ‘Little Mouse’), and how, like the Ford Model T in America, it brought car ownership to the masses in Italy and sparked a social revolution. I wasn’t just writing about a lump of metal.

I was proud of my 1,000 words, so I showed them to my dad.

“Read that out loud,” he said.

Reluctantly I agreed, and was soon tripping over stray commas, running out of breath during meandering, punctuation free sentences, and getting confused by a historical timeline that zigzagged between dates rather than starting at the beginning and moving in a linear way to the end of the story. To miss-quote Eric Morecambe, I had all the right words, but not necessarily in the right order.

Several re-writes and a lot of parental nudging later and I produced the story I thought I’d written to start with, in the process meeting my first deadline. Soon I was in print for the first time. Luckily for me, that inconsequential little piece was the start of a career.

It also gave me the basic building blocks for everything I’ve written or edited since. I’m still learning and refining my craft, telling stories and taking readers to interesting places. To do this is a privilege and a pleasure.