The last few months have, yet again, been spent thinking about writing, lots of thinking but not much doing and that is despite much encouragement from friends.
Finally though I think I'm ready for the off.
The house cleaning which I was using as an excuse... the I must just "wash the floor/chisel the grime from the skirting boards/remove the Miss Havisham like swathings from the cornices" tasks are at last completed. Now, I'm not suggesting we have reached hygienic levels of cleanliness, but if I said that Time Team would have cheerfully conducted a dig here you may get an idea of what I was dealing with. I have also redecorated both children's rooms, which translates as I chose the paint, made tea and generally offered unhelpful suggestions whilst husband and son did manly bonding over paintbrushes. I have designed a huge bookcase too, where I can rehome the tottering piles of books that adorn every flat surface in the house.
After all this sorting, a modern day visit to the Augean stables, my reward was to make myself a place to write, hidden away, quiet, no distractions and three flights of stairs away from the biscuits. There is a bookcase, my favourite pictures on the wall in front of me, my ipod and an ashtray.
Let writing commence