If I hadn't read Through the Looking Glass, I don't suppose I'd ever have tried to get into a mirror. I spent so many hours of my childhood touching the glass with my fingers, willing the surface to dissolve and let me through.

So I was more than prepared the day my grandfather's wardrobe mirror finally distorted and sent me, with a dizzying flip, to the other side.

When I checked my reflection, I discovered that, while I had started out half-heartedly as a girl, I had ended up (I checked inside my underpants, to be sure) whole-heartedly a boy. I put my hands in my new, masculine-tailored pockets and practised swaggering, as I'd seen Sam Cook do at school.

An old lady hovered into view. 'Is nowhere sacred?' she murmured.

I swivelled round. 'Grandfather?'

She sighed. 'Yes, it's me. Now, do you mind? I have some escaping to do.'

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