My good friend Jane Wolfe passed away last week. I met her through my mum when I was 11 and she was 41. She taught me to play killer scrabble and introduced me to a whole world of authors: Ursula Le Guin, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Terry Pratchett, Melanie Rawn, Robin Hobb, Guy Gavriel Kay, Julian May and so many more. She even got me to read the first few of David Wingrove’s Chung Kuo series (did anyone read all of them?). I would skive off school to read her books, or sneak round and play scrabble.

We didn’t talk about much except books and words – if I wanted to have a moan about life she’d say, in her deep, gravelly, Canadian drawl “Life’s a bitch Sophie, quit fucking complaining and get on with it”. Best advice I was ever given. I didn’t see so much of her in recent years – life gets in the way and, as she would probably have said “we are a pair of headstrong cunts” ha.

She wasn’t always easy to love, and was as quick with a “fuck you” as she was with a hug, and that’s what I loved about her. She had a massive heart and sang jazz with a voice that enveloped you like molten lava. I saw her in the hospital last week and thanked her for inspiring me when I needed it most. She said “you’ve got to pass it on Sophie” – and she has. I love you Jane, and hope you’re raising merry fucking hell with the gods tonight xxx