Today I Write

New Year's Eve, our neighbours' screeching partying in the street whilst I'm tucked up in bed unable to sleep. I should have had a bottle or two of Prosecco, but the day had not been good and it seemed wise to draw a line under the year and start fresh the next day, without a raging hangover. Anyway, in my sleepless state my mind set off wandering until it reached the most obvious thing ever. I was to write a novel. A Great Novel that would make me rich and I could leave my job and stay at home and knit, sew, spin and watch True Blood all the time.

There are many things wrong with this idea. Not least that my husband is a many times published writer and we are not rich. We live in a semi detached house with on street parking and one car between us. And I'm not allowed to buy wool every month. I also have an attention span of a toddler on calpol. I'd start writing about Maggie's Marriage, or some other twaddle, and end by discussing the merits of chocolate over coffee cake, and not be entirely sure what happened in the middle. Probably something involving tea and a really nice frock. And that, I think, will always make me happy.