Bookish behaviour is all about timing

Like having a baby, there is never a good time to write a novel. There’s never a time when you think, oh yes, right now is absolutely the right time to withdraw from the world, stay in your dressing gown for an indefinite period, allow the brown envelopes to reach elbow height on the hall floor. The alternative is to wait until the kids are grown and the mortgage paid off, but given the current economic climate – in this household at least – the kids may never leave home, and it would be cheaper to die than pay off the mortgage.

Which is why I have been in my dressing gown since September. You slip into a routine of sorts, one that involves Cup-A-Soup and staring out the window, then frantic typing for a bit, then more staring out the window. The postman is the only other human with whom you have face to face contact, so if there’s no post, you end up talking quietly to yourself, reminding yourself that it’s probably time for another Cup-A-Soup. (You’ve had to cut back on the coffee, since the palpitations and shaky hands made it difficult to type ).