James W. Mitchell was born in Falkirk, Scotland on Halloween, 1961. He was the unlikely child of a Witch and a Pumpkin – a Wumpkin. Wumpkins look exactly like humans, but scrap away the skin and the tell-tale orange is a dead give-away. After being driven from his home by flaming villagers with angry pitch-forks and MagLite torches, he took refuge in a field near Forfar where he put down roots and won the Pumpkin Of The Year contest for a record eight years straight.

This country idyll came to an abrupt end when arch pumpkin growing rival, Mary McTavish, became insane with bitter jealousy and torched the very field James resided in. The game was over – Pumpkins do not scream - and the burning Wumpkin was forced to flee. It was a traumatic affair for the exact same villagers with the exact same pitch-forks were bussed in to do their damnedest. But this time they got him. They tied him to a flaming stake and wondered aloud whether or not he should be roasted with or without garlic. Being of conservative nature, the villagers rejected the Garlic Option but the damage had been done.

Taking advantage of the ensuing arguments – the Pro Garlic Minority being loud and vociferous – James slipped his bindings and rolled down the hill where he went ‘splash’ into the River South Esk and bobbed along the water. This was a career low point. Whilst he may have had panoramic views of the Angus Glens, water voles took exception to him. In fact, Ratty from Kenneth Grahame's 'The Wind in the Willows' was actually a water vole… so there.

The voles decided to turn him in to the Correct Authorities but help was at hand when some rough and calloused hands plucked him from the water, flung him in a sack and carried him to a remote hunting lodge. Imagine the surprise of Mr Albert Redfearn Liverbury, aka ‘Dreary’, when he presented the ‘pumpkin’ to his dear beloved late wife, ‘Trinny’ as she sat stone cold dead in the armchair. The Pumpkin was in fact a Wumpkin who had had enough. At this point the author shall take the Fifth Amendment and deny any knowledge as to the disappearance of the Liverburys. ‘Nough said. Suffice to say the hunting lodge was well insulated and had a secure gun cabinet although the extra £20 charge for the aforesaid luxury was cheeky.

James prospered, became a member of the golf club where he was known affectionately as ‘Pat’, sold five high-spec Kubota tractors to Tayside Contracts and wrote a novel in the wilds of City Quay Shopping Centre, on the Dundee waterfront, where factory outlets aim to guarantee designer labels at low prices. The novel he wrote is called Top Of The World. And that, as they say, is that.

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