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About Me—Michelle Scorziello
What’s yours is mine, what’s mine’s my own
I live in London.
I am a teacher who teaches children who cannot read, whom mainstream school has failed. In my dreams, being a fluent reader is a human right; governments seek out people like me and pay us to eradicate the scourge of illiteracy; prison populations plummet as a side effect.
My politics are champagne socialism without much champagne as I drink little. I have tall poppy syndrome and might have made a communist, but good hairdressers are an essential of life— hair coming only second to teeth in importance.
I possess more books than I can read, which is the only way to live.
I have a garden of hydrangeas, those gorgeous shrubs that can survive so much neglect and still give forth globes of raspberry perfection.
My father is English. But more importantly, my mother was Irish. When I was small, she would read Tennyson to me. She could make mirrors crack from side to side; a mad Bertha in the attic. But she so loved language. And Vonnegut said,
‘Lucky indeed is the writer who has grown up in Ireland, for the English spoken there is so amusing and musical.’
