I've always wanted a writers shed - or a shack as I call it. So let's call it a shack. Whenever I see a friend building a lean-to in their garden or proposing a woodpile shelter in that field round the corner, I always say "so you're building me a writer's shack are you?"
"Yes Jet," they nod indulgently, "we're building you a writer's shack..."
But all those hints and prompts, all those mortgage debits of the mind, come to nothing.
Until here, finally, I have my writers shack. It's not as creaky as I thought. Relatively draftproof. I can hear the faint whirr of a hard disc. There's an uninterrupted view across the campaign for a new book, a kettle in the corner, my bike tools, the faint whiff of oil, a variety of bike parts and a frame awaiting its final build into a new bike.
And here, beneath my fingers, the keyboard.
So welcome and thanks for pledging. Pull up a stool. Fancy a cup of tea? Perhaps a coffee. The mug needs a wipe. Oops sorry, that's the oily rag for the chain. Here's an air dried tea towel.
Let's get started. Hold that spanner...I just need to screw the bike pedal onto the crank. Prop your elbow on that copy of Bertrand Russell's "The History of Western Philosophy."
Now push...