I had one of those weekends when I started daydreaming about that long-held, dear fantasy: a room of one’s own to write in.
Or, a shed of my own!
I wouldn’t be fussy. Anything would do. A cupboard under the stairs would suffice. Even a shoe large enough to house me.
But the problem with one bedroom flats in South London is that we do not have a surplus of rooms, let alone any stairs or giant-sized footwear.
Something’s wired in my brain and so I only really like writing in an empty room containing just me, a laptop and a good internet connection.
I get round this quite often by getting up early, before anyone else does, and enjoying the silent hour when it feels like the whole world is still asleep.
Weekends are a little different. Mostly it’s down to me being a lot lazier and the fact that my other half is at home working too. Most of the time it’s fine for us both to set up in our living room and get on with it but this weekend I had the overwhelming desire to read aloud some of the chapters I am working on. I find it really useful although I also feel a bit barmy when I do it too.
No one should have to hear my nonsensical mumblings and word-bumbling but where was I to go? Bathroom? Kitchen? The narrow corridor of our hall? We were almost out of rooms.
It turns out that if I pulled a drawer a little way out of its chest I could sit at a makeshift desk in the bedroom. There, I happily rambled away to my heart’s content.
I still want a shed though.