I first met Mr Ernest Hemmingway Mustard meandering along the Prom at Brighton. I’d not lived here long and was intrigued by this eccentric figure wearing an oversized Macintosh, stripy tights and a strange wide brimmed hat a bit like that of an old-fashioned preacher man. Kind curious eyes peered at me from behind wire rimmed spectacles and he held a small plump dog on the end of a long string. I’m afraid it was love and first sight.

Ernest is a quiet man, not a shy one, and once we started talking the conversation flowed. Sitting on a bench gazing out to sea with his little dog nestling between us, from time to time he’d reach into a well stuffed pocket for a handful of toffee humbugs which he carefully unwrapped and fed to the little dog. Apparently the wrappers were not good for her and got stuck in her throat.

She’d turned up on their doorstep as a stray. He’d guessed her early years had been spent on the wild and windy streets, fighting the seagulls for old bags of chips and pizza crusts left by day trippers next to overflowing bins. In fact it was her tipsy leggies (after eating a whole packet of discarded cherry brandy truffles) that had caused her to fall down the stairs of their not so damp basement flat on the Brighton Hove border all those years ago. And Violet, his dear lady wife, named her Doris Jane after her late mother.

Ernest is one of those people you warm to right from the start. I said that I’d love to share his stories with a wider audience, and as I’m more of a painter than a writer we decided there and then that I should become his official picture maker. And with his generous spirit and my flaky little paintbrush we bring you a whole world of Mustard (which we think is Wonderful). Come on in, you’re all welcome. There’s so much to discover and we hope to make you smile. We even got a little Club.