A writing cave. A state-of-the art computer set-up. A luxurious retreat in the South of France.

That was my dream.

 I would sit and write there, one day, when I became a author. Or so I thought.

After a lifetime in a variety of other careers, I now have several books to my name. I even describe myself as a writer. But, like so many aspirations, the reality turned out to be a little different, and infinitely less glamorous.

I have a study.  It’s the smallest bedroom in the house, boasting enough space for a desk and not much else.

I bought a suitably tiny desk, and a special ‘office chair’.

Both were mistakes.

I need space. I need a stack of books to reference. I need many, many pens, because they magically ‘walk’ to other rooms.

I can’t work without piles of paper where I doodle and write research reminders, like ‘buy more cake.’

My special chair rotates. This would be perfect in a large, open-plan office; the newspaper office in Superman, for example.  I could swivel round, waving a paragraph of brilliance, shouting ‘hold the front page.’

Instead, I spend my days fighting the swivel. This involves pressing my legs firmly against the edge of the desk.

Besides, my children keep having children. They are delightful, a blessing, the loves of my life, but when they all come for Christmas, we have a challenge.

You have to store those grandchildren somewhere.

The answer is bunk beds –  the smallest on the market. They fit in (just) against the wall. They’re great for stacking a couple of grandsons, but access to my desk is severely restricted.

‘A laptop. That’s the answer,’ I cried. ‘I can work anywhere.’

That’s what led to the recent sad tale, the title of this piece…

…In the Conservatory, with a Computer Cable.

Here’s the cast list:

• an annoying fly,
• my special fly-friendly, fly-removing implement,
• a lap-top cable,
• a tiled floor, and
• my kneecap.

My leg is much better now, thank you, but chocs, flowers and cups of tea still very welcome.

The conservatory has other disadvantages. These include:

• the body count of dead insects on the floor every morning during the summer, no matter how often I attack those pesky spiders’ webs with a broom,
  
• the tempting presence of the garden, just a step away, where the sun shines, the bees buzz, and a seat in a cosy corner for reading tempts me away, while my poor, patient editor waits in vain for the next story,
  
• the constant nagging desire to visit the vegetables to see how they’re doing. See carrot below.

I’ve banished myself to the dining room table to write this post, which is intended to celebrate the publication of A Village Murder, the first in my new series of murder mysteries set in Somerset.

And, as I move on to the next adventure for Adam and Imogen, my ‘odd couple’ heroes of A Village Murder, instead of luxuriating in those glamorous venues I used to dream of, I’m faced with a blank page, an empty mind, and a ticking clock.

But, all is not lost. The kitchen is close by and I think, in fact, I’m almost sure, there’s a slice of coffee cake left in the tin.

Excuse me while I check…