A story about childhood fears, societal expectations and isolation - things that could turn an ordinary young woman into a witch... "In the autumn of 1961, Hallow's Eve held a special promise for me, because I had recently discovered that Didsbury was home to a witch. She was an absolute gem of a witch - cut-glass cheekbones, raven tresses, laced up boots and every single garment I ever saw her in was black. She wore a regular pill box hat, but I saw through this disguise: I knew she had a pointy one in her wardrobe for special occasions. I was nine years old."