I come from a long line of storytellers.

Sunday evenings surrounded by parents, grandparents and a host of aunts and uncles, after The Black and White Minstrels' Show, someone would start: 'Do you remember Mabel Shufflebotham with her horse and cart?' and off they'd go into a long tale of her exploits.

The stories always seemed to be full of fun, like my Grandad's stories. He was one of the best storytellers ever! I can remember climbing onto his knee saying 'Tell me a story Grandad!' and years later after his death, smiling in remembrance, though feeling a little envious of my own son, as he climbed onto my Dad's knee saying the same!

My Dad's inherited the knack of good storytelling, but could never top my Grandad's stories.

He was in the First World War and lost his arm when he was 18! He suffered awfully from the gassing he got in the trenches, but his stories were always full of excitement and humour.

I never saw my Grandad walk.

I remember trailing up and down the prom at Skegness trying to find a café without steps and then my Gran, apologising for having to ask people to move to make room for him and his chair.

I have been left with a love of Wilfred Owen, Rupert Brooke and other First World War poets. Then, when someone asked me, quite recently, how I got into working with people with disabilities, I realised, for the first time, that must have come from the memory of an old man, with a gruff voice, white curly hair, one arm and bent legs in a wheelchair, who was one of the best storytellers ever!