After another quick glance around, I flick open the front cover of the book and draw a tiny black cat with a spiky mullet blowing a bubble on the inside. It makes me chuckle as I finish the doodle before closing the book and sliding it back into place. The drawings are just something I’ve always done. My father used to call them my little signature. He’d find them all over the house when I was young, shouting at me from the kitchen when I’d forget the rules: no furniture, no walls, no floor.
