The most expensive possession in the world is perspective. When I was in high school, I refused to write as a young man. I won my first accolade as an octogenarian, and finished my final year with a middle-aged assassin. For two years I was a toddler until I pulled the plug on his stillborn exposition. I still find it difficult to become someone I am and am not. But more recently, I’ve been writing about first dates, and travel, and interviews – all those hopes and anxieties which slither around in the heads of my generation. Perhaps it is because I find myself, like Plato (?), increasingly conscious of what I do not know of different ages, whether it be through prematurity or the elision of growing up. Talking animals are easy, as are shimmers of magic, perhaps because they have no referent in real life (or, when they do, they so dwarf comprehension that we can only perceive them through the veil of fiction). But it’s the craftsman’s duty to go beyond what is comfortable and hew out newness in others’ experience as well as his own. “There’s a little of you in all your stories,” they say. But there are still stories of me which I physically cannot yet tell. I keep trying out perspectives so that one day, perhaps I will.