At such times I feel I could die for love of her, my little stranger, my heart swelling dangerously so that the only release is to run too, my red coat flapping around my shoulders like wings, my hair a comet’s tail in the patchy blue sky.

For a moment something almost as rare as the sight that they had just witnessed occurred: Loki was totally lost for words.

All words have power, of course, but names are the most potent of all, which is why the gods had so many.

I’ll let you take your pick,” he said. “But on one condition. We’ll stand all our eligible men behind a screen, with only their feet on display. Then you’ll choose. You’ll choose your husband by his feet. Agreed?” I stared at him. I mean, really. His feet? What new perversion was this?

Rock salt and bread by the doorstep to placate any resident gods. Sandalwood on our pillow, to sweeten our dreams.

A problem shared is a problem solved.

For a teller of tales will never die, but will live on in stories – for as long as there are folk to listen.

I’m incapable of hiding my feelings when I’m around someone I don’t like.

If you were to be stranded on a desert island, what three items would you take? I gave this frivolous answer: A cat, a hat and a piece of string.

I happen to know that history is nothing but a spin and metaphor, which is what all yarns are made up of, when you strip them down to the underlay. And what makes a hit or a myth, of course, is how that story is told, and by whom.