Once upon a time, in Grandmother’s House, there lived a writer. The house was not in a deep dark wood, as you might imagine, but right beside the sea. Inspirational, you might think, but rather cold and a bit windy.
‘Nothing ever happens here,’ complained the writer. ‘Carnoustie is famous for golf, but not much else. If only I could use the power of my imagination to put the old place on the map. Perhaps I could dream up a chilling basement, an abandoned mill, some strange taxidermy and a harp made out of bone?’