When my eldest child was one year old, they were given a stuffed unicorn toy, who we named Gavin, much to the gift-giver’s surprise — “Unicorns can’t be boys! It has pink hair!”

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Thankfully, in our house we don’t prescribe to heteronormative boundaries, so Gavin it was. A magical backstory was soon woven. Gavin the Unicorn was a cockney punk who was challenged by keeping up with his anarchist friends. One evening, after a few too many blue drinks, he got on the wrong train at East Croydon and ended up in North Wales with us.

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He has been very happy here ever since, and now enjoys dancing, walks in the country, and the occasional glass of almond milk.

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When it came to deciding our name, only one thing seemed fitting to encompass the mischievous, whimsical, inclusive spirit we embody thus, The Rogue Unicorn was born.