Two weeks without writing more than a shopping list has taught me a lesson: I need to write almost as much as I need to eat and sleep. Without it I feel…. not quite myself. I suppose I was a fool to think otherwise. After all, I’ve been writing since I was old enough to hold a pencil. Retirement, it seems, is out of the question. I’ll settle for a slower pace.

My two week writing drought has been filled with the stuff you need to do when you’re moving house. I thought my life was simple and streamlined. A delusion. I was overlooking the fact that, inter alia, I owned eleven unidentifiable electronics cables from gadgets of yesteryear, tangled with three sets of defunct headphones. Note the use of the past tense. I owned them, but not any more.

I’m moving from a small flat to an even smaller one. The mission therefore is ruthless culling. I find I can do it in one hour bursts. After that, I run out of firm resolution and find myself sitting on the edge of the bed reading old birthday cards.

Tomorrow, back at my desk, I’ll be preparing Dr Dan for the printer. We are on target for October 1st, he for publication, and I for opening the door on my own exciting new adventure. Of which, more next time.