Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Ana s Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

Extra-Ordinary Ambitions

Margie had always hated interviews, and the prospect of this one had reduced her to a bag of nerves.

Her thoughts travelled back forty years, to her teenage self, sitting apprehensively outside the Headmaster's office, anticipating his judgment on her latest act of rebellion. She was fortunate that Mr Boothroyd's only options had been to shout and call her parents again. Suffocating her in spider webs or making her spontaneously combust would have been poorly regarded by the Education Department.

Margie had been surprised when the Superpowers Distribution Authority (SDA) replied to her, suspecting that telepathy was their preferred communication medium and email just too 'normie.' It said they wanted to meet face-to-masked-face but explained that their usual offices next to the dry cleaners on the High Street were currently unusable due to a plumbing issue. Their nemesis organisation in the Bowels of Hell had waged a wet wipes war, causing a catastrophic backup, and it would have to be at their temporary office in Asgard.

Asgard wasn't listed on Google maps, causing some navigational difficulties, but an affable, recently expired Viking had helpfully pointed Margie in the right direction. Her instructions were to sit outside the gates and wait. The chair looked minuscule next to the ridiculously over-the-top portal guarding Norse Gods HQ from unwanted visitors. Literally sky-high and made of a wood that glowed with a blood-red hue, the gates were embellished with precious metal fittings and the skulls of unexpected callers, some with religious pamphlets still wedged in their teeth. Not exactly a welcome mat, Margie thought, rolling her eyes.

She waited for the promised transportation to take her to the office. A golf buggy hove into view, looking very mortal and out of place, with a faded canvas roof and upholstery cracked and compacted by the cheeks of corpulent golfers. Its teleportation capacity therefore came as something of a surprise.

No sooner had Margie climbed aboard than she heard a zippp and saw an alarming flash. Luckily, it wasn't, as she had first feared, the cart's lithium battery exploding; just an aftermarket addition for interdimensional-travel-capable carts, like purple disco lights underneath a souped-up Subaru.

Warily opening her eyes, she found herself in front of a desk that had clearly seen better eons. It wasn't just chipped and cracked, but scorched in places, and wonky where an absent leg had been replaced by an IKEA stool with a pile of books on top. Very Scandi, she thought.

Behind the desk, several people waited with an air of impatience. There were two men, wearing the faded garb of superheroes, but appearing so far beyond the peak of their powers they could have passed for retired Tax Office auditors with grudges, arthritis and an unhealthy attachment to nylon. With them sat a weary-looking middle-aged woman, barely contained within a shiny corset top missing most of its sequins, teamed with comfy track pants and Ugg boots.

Margie was directed to a single wooden chair in front of the desk; a Skogsta, according to the swing tag still attached. She sat down cautiously, suspecting that neither Norse Gods nor retired superheroes possessed the patience or fine motor skills needed to assemble flat-pack furniture. The Allen Key of the Gods had yet to be immortalised.

Dim yellow light emanating from a single dusty globe dropping from the unseen ceiling above barely infiltrated the dimness, forcing Old Man #1 to use his mobile phone light to read from the sheet in front of him. "Ms... Grafton?" he asked, squinting.

"That's right," she responded brightly, mentally crossing 'super sight' off the list of his possible powers.

"You have requested a review of superpower allocation. Is that correct?" He glanced down the table at his fellow interview panel members, as if confirming this wasn't just someone's idea of a practical joke.

"Yes. I have some ideas for updating them."

Old Man #2 snorted derisively. "Oh, I suppose you're going to tell us we need to be more awake?"

The woman nudged his elbow. "I think Barry, the term is 'woke.' "

Barry grumbled. "That sounds like very poor grammar to me. What have these people been doing to the language these last hundred years?"

The woman sighed and turned to Margie.

"Ms Grafton, Margaret, my name is Dr Susan Storm, and these are my fellow board members on the Superpower Distribution Authority, Barry Allen and Geoffrey Prescott. Barry was once known as The Flash for his superhuman speed, agility and stamina. Unfortunately, a prosthetic hip and a dodgy bladder precipitated his retirement. He oversees our inventory of shields, swords, hammers, and the like, from an office near the bathroom.

"Geoffrey was the original superhero, The Phantom, albeit one who was never given any superpowers as such, just a shedload of purple Lycra. As our oldest member, The Ghost Who Walks With a Zimmer Frame, he's understandably conservative in his approach to handing out extraordinary abilities.

"My own superpower is that of invisibility, which I'm fortunate has become completely effortless as I've grown older." Susan smiled like someone trying to see the bright side but finding only the gloom at the bottom of the barrel.

"Perhaps Ms Grafton, you could tell us what you think we've been getting wrong all these years?" Barry's tone was snarky. Margie suspected they all had their force fields up against new ideas, but having got this far, she was going to state her case come Hell, high water, or supernatural rain of Raggador.

"Firstly, your recruitment process needs to be more inclusive. I've yet to see entry-level Superheroing roles on LinkedIn. Skills training provided, BYO cape, kind of thing." Margie looked intently at the panel members. "The jobs were handed out decades ago, mainly to blokes, of course, since which time they've largely been filtered down to family. Super Nepo Babies who go off the rails more regularly than rock stars."

Geoffrey retorted angrily. "Would you think it fairer if we raffled off superpowers instead? In place of a meat tray, the winner gets mind-control abilities? Or a quiz night perhaps, where the best table gets telekinesis over the top shelf spirits?" He clearly still had issues with his own absence of impressive abilities.

"I'm just asking for a level playing field.' Margie suddenly looked worried. "Metaphorically, that is. I don't want any more cities flattened. Your people have done more than enough in that department."

The atmosphere in the room congealed like custard and was equally as silent.

"Look," Margie continued nervously, "even the outfits are stuck in a time warp. I'm sorry, Mr Prescott, but it started with you, and nothing has changed in ninety years. It's a sea of Lycra, and you all look like a peloton of MAMILS who've lost their bicycles and clippy cloppy shoes. It doesn't promote body positivity, and quite honestly, there isn't enough deodorant in the world to deal with all that exertion in fabrics that don't breathe. Aside from anything else, it's simply not okay to wear your underwear on the outside anymore unless you're at a music festival."

"You may have a point there, Ms Grafton. Lycra isn't always our friend." Susan Storm looked intently at Margie and gave an almost imperceptible sideways nod towards the purple-coated lava flow of Barry's undulating belly.

"Thank you, Susan. Please call me Margie. I've always wondered, by the way, how it was that when you married Mr Fantastic, you weren't Mrs Fantastic, but the Invisible Woman. Doesn't that seem just a bit gaslighty to you?"

"Bang on, there, Margie. It caused a few, um, domestic discussions, I can tell you. Parts of the house still haven't been rebuilt."

"Superhero sexism is unacceptable in this day and age, and the range of superpowers desperately needs updating." Margie sighed.

"Speed and strength have stood the test of time, Ms Grafton," said Barry smugly, settling back into his seat after an impressively swift visit to the bathroom.

"It would be nice to see speed applied to something useful, like roadworks," Margie mused. "Superhuman strength worries me, though. It's not okay to have a library or any public building randomly picked up out of pique. Especially by people whose anger issues have caused them to turn green and split their pants. They need therapy and a wardrobe of stretch cotton, not ticker tape parades."

"What would you suggest we replace it with?" Geoffrey sneered, keen to shoot her ideas down in flames and wishing the Human Torch was still alive. His cremation had spectacularly destroyed several streets.

Margie consulted her notes. "Perhaps the finesse to open childproof jars, or one of those really annoying cartons that spontaneously split and spill milk all over the kitchen bench. It's practical help that doesn't need the super strength of endless hours in the gym. Maybe they could take up crochet or volunteer at the cat shelter instead.

"Also, while I have concerns with potential misuse of X-ray vision, I can see some useful applications for it, within a strict regulatory framework, of course."

"Go on," said Susan.

"Those 150-page terms-and-conditions documents we have to agree to online, that no one ever reads. It would be handy to call on someone who could pick out the section in 4-point font where you agree to have your body probed by aliens if you ever cancel the subscription."

"That's all very domestic territory, Ms Grafton. Haven't you got anything more aspirational for the superhero who wants to save the world?" Geoffrey was looking bored. "Surely there are still bad guys to fight?"

"Yes, but unfortunately, most of them have been elected into office, so that poses a whole other problem."

"Your email also requested a review of your own superpowers." Susan smiled. "What have you got in mind?"

"Thank you. Please relieve me of the shapeshifting. It came without warning, an instruction manual, or a reverse gear. I can go to bed one dress size and wake up in the morning a completely different, and invariably larger one. I strongly suspect other powers are at work too, and I'd appreciate it if you could call off the Midlife Fat Fairy. To be frank, if I get hold of that little bitch, she'll get a slap that's going to need serious attention from the Tooth Fairy."

Susan's eyebrows raised as she made notes.

"There's another one I've yet to figure out the point of." Margie sighed. "I can instinctively fill a kettle with the exact amount of water for two cups of tea. Two. If I'm on my own or friends come over, it's useless. There's a low-level feel-good factor in a tiny saving of water and electricity, and it's one of several reasons why I choose to remain married. I can't help but feel, though, that this was given to me from the back pages of the superpowers catalogue, specifically, from the 'piss-weak' section.

"So - if you can please swap those out for something more useful, I'd be obliged."

"Could we interest you in regeneration?" asked Geoffrey, trying not to smirk.

"Definitely not. With my luck, I'd come back as a miserable old git who struggles to put his pants on the right way round before going lawn bowling." Margie hoped that didn't sound accusatory.

"How about mind-reading?" Barry suggested.

"Yuck - no! Wading into people's deepest, darkest thoughts would get stuff on my shoes I'll never clean off and a smell to outlive Keith Richards." Margie thought for a few moments.

"I'd like precognition, please. It would mean a lifetime of spoilers, but the Lotto wins would compensate. I can already predict the storylines for the next five years of Home and Away or Border Patrol, so it's no great loss."

"Is that all we can do for you, Miss Grafton?" Geoffrey responded in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Actually, no. There's one more thing. I want the superpower of visibility, please."

"Don't you mean invisibility?" asked Susan, looking perplexed.

"No, I don't. As a middle-aged woman, I am completely across invisibility. I can fly under the radar more effectively than a mosquito in a fake moustache and sunglasses. It's anonymity taken to the level of an art form. I want to be seen. Even if it's just when I'm trying to get a barman's attention in a crush of burly blokes or young women in outfits with the structural integrity of a wet tissue."

Susan looked thoughtful.

"Your existence would be acknowledged, you mean, without having to dangle people over an active volcano or glare laser beams? That would be... super."

Margie was happy that this insight at least had hit home. But a new idea had insinuated itself.

"Tell me," she asked, "In all this 'superheroes saving the world' business, has there ever been anyone dedicated to peace? You know, bringing people together, talking, that sort of thing?"

Susan's brow furrowed in thought. "Superheroing really doesn't have that vibe, if I'm honest. It's a very showy industry, and it'd be hard to get buy-in from the boys if they couldn't blow things up or at least leap tall buildings, knees allowing. It'd be like MMA fighters discussing their feelings over a nice cup of tea at the pre-match meeting."

"Think about the possibilities, though!" Margie became animated. "We'd have to call them PeacePerson to be gender-neutral, but it'd be a perfect job for a mother. Someone who could send bullying, badly behaved world leaders to their rooms without their feet touching the ground. Ban them from social media until they learn not to post deranged, insulting statements and give them a slap upside the head when they tell lies. PeacePerson could teach them how to play nicely, rather than firing missiles and sending in armies."

"I like it!" Susan said with a smile. "It's got definite possibilities." She turned excitedly back to her fellow panellists.

Unfortunately, Barry had fallen asleep, and Geoffrey was absorbed in his phone, playing Mortal Kombat.