A story with dragons in

This may, at first, appear to be a story about elephants; pray do not be alarmed.

The reason for this is that my aunt is a spinner and a knitter. In my grandparents' house upon a hill in Bath, on the tiny single bed in the tiny room overlooking the garden, that used to be my aunt's and is now my grandfather's study; from which one can see the blackcurrant bushes and hot air balloons; is a knitted elephant, about the size of a child's torso, all in yellow.

This elephant is named Custard, and as is the way with elephants, he is much, much older than I.

My favourite thing about him was not that he was just right to hug, nor even his ears, but the stories my father would tell me (or tell us): about Custard and his friend the yellow dragon Ogwurt: ogwurt being, of course, our childish mispronunciation of yoghurt.

Or, rather, the stories he would tell us about Ogwurt And Custard, because that is how we referred to them and that is how we would ask for them.

They involved jungles and snakes and Ogwurt flying above the trees following Custard's passage by the trembling of the leaves. They were adventure and communication and more-or-less the only time my father ever told us bedtime stories.

This perhaps goes some way towards explaining my abiding conviction that dragons - especially if they are yellow - are friendly and kind and a little bit inept; and why stories with dragons in feel rather like an unexpected and bittersweet homecoming.

My favourite colours

When I was ten and in year 6, we got a treat: in addition to the red and yellow and powder-blue powder paints in art, on one very special day we were also (just the once, because now we were old and responsible) permitted Prussian Blue, and I fell in love.

(I was already very, very fond of blue. This icon is a photograph taken when I can't have been more than about six - I had the dress when I was in year two - and it is ridiculous and satin-y and stiff, with puffed sleeves and a petticoat, and as you can see I am wearing blue tights and wellington boots with blue trim. I was standing reading in the sunlight at the bottom of the garden, underneath the apple tree; I have my back to it, facing back up the garden towards the house.)

I loved peacocks and their feathers - because of the blue.

Now it is rapidly apparent if you meet me, or visit my home: my silicone cookware is blue; my sheets are blue (and my duvet covers have dinosaurs); my blankets are blue; my towels are blue; the postcards stuck on my wall tend towards blue; my 2013 diary is teal taffeta; my three most commonly worn scarves are blue; I own two pairs of teal boots and one pair of teal trousers and one blue shirt; my favourite pendants all contain blue; my wheelchair is blue; and my t-shirts, when stacked neatly on my shelves, divide very neatly in two: dominantly black and, yes, dominantly blue. My overnight bag is blue and contains teal eyeliner and teal body glitter. My backpacks have been blue since secondary school. The arms of my glasses are mottled translucent teal and brown. The curtains in the bedroom of my childhood are striped rich blues and purples, streaked with silver.

I have spent hours staring at the varied blues of the sea and of the sky. I am entranced by opals and labradorite and lapis lazuli and azure.

I don't, I'm afraid, have good stories for you as to why blue, or what about it, but here we have the thing and, it would seem, the whole of the thing.

There is nothing in the world quite like the blue of glaciers or of gentians.