I have been accused of ‘organisation’ and ‘tidiness’.

I beg to differ.

In support of this stance, I offer the following evidence….

[NB - Hello doesn't seem to want to play with me today - I'll be back later to post the piccy!)

Note the discarded hair towel, the half-finished packet of ginger nibbles, the pile of… stuff. There’s a bed under there somewhere.

And that’s the back end of a camera-shy black cat disappearing off the corner of the desk.

Tidy indeed. *Harumph*

I think a writer’s desk is like a fingerprint of their personality. Unique to each writer, and tell-tale. What we see tells us alot about them as a person.

Here’s mine:

My fingerprint 

For me, though, it’s the stories behind the details that really make the person. That yellow post it, for example, to the left of that picture, says, “Don’t Forget Jamey.” Sir Jamey was a member of eHarlequin, and a warm and funny person. One day, on his way back from a writers group meeting, he pulled over on the side of he road, and quietly died behind the wheel. It was a terrible shock, and we still miss him.

But the reason that post-it exists is because I was rather ill at the time Jamey left us, and my memory was failing badly. I had a morbid paranoia that this lovely guy had left us, and soon I would forget that he had ever existed. That wasn’t to be tolerated, so I wrote myself an aide memoire. Although I’m now well, and never likely to forget him, I keep it as a reminder both of Jamey, and of how ill I was, and how lucky I am to be better.

Then there’s the dictionary and thesaurus. NOT, I hasten to add, put there to look clever in the photograph. I wil admit I rarely use them *blush* but they were my 18th birthday present from my parents. When other 18 year olds were getting stereos and TVs, all I wanted in the world was a guide to the world of words. Kind of a pointer to the woman to come, no?

There’s stacks of paper, the ubiquitous tyvek envelopes, a fluffy pink flamingo pen from Kate Walker, the Vogler Madalyn Reese bullied me into buying and he obscene notice from Julie which (thank heaven) is obscured by the black notebook so you can’t actually read it, and which reminds me that I’m talented, when I think I suck.

Look top right – that lighthouse? That’s one of Mel’s lighthouse pictures. And below that is Vin’s bald pate just looming. He looms so well….

Nothing like a bit of name dropping, eh? Seriously, though, if there’s one thing my workspace says about me, it’s that I have wonderful, generous, supportive friends. I’m very lucky in that.

And there’s Minnie, curled up dozing in the lap of Paddington, who was my birthday present when I was about four (the teddy bear was, not the kitten…). My writer’s life would never be complete without cats. The green blankie on top of the printer is hers, too.

I used to have an utterly beloved ginger tom called Geri who slept on my desk whenever I was writing. I still remember how he felt under my hand, writing and purring, while I worked out what the next sentence would say.

Minnie’s more likely to leave sticky nose marks on the monitor, but she’s young yet…

NB – distrust the writer who has a perfectly empty and tidy desk. They have something to hide…. *looks shifty*

1) The very early signs of pregnancy are remarkably like bad PMS. I get bad PMS. I suspect I shall be blogging about trying (and failing) for a baby sometime soon. Nuff said for now.

2) My Big Grey Cat Merlin is dying of cancer and chronic kidney failure. He’s responding well to treatment (and to coaxing with expensive foods), however, so he’s not suffering yet. We’ve probably got weeks, maybe months, and I’ve gone from wishing he’d died suddenly to being incredibly grateful for every moment we still have. But this does mean that we have an obsessive interest in his toilet habits at the moment – every pee is a small triumph.

Today, he peed in my work shoes.

And as the now cold cat’s urine soaked into my unsuspecting sock, I was troubled by mixed emotions. On the one hand – “hooray, his kidneys are still working!” on the other hand, “these are my only decent work shoes!”* And a healthy dose of, “ewwwwwww!”

3) The prospect of having to lose weight by cutting down on what I eat is depressing. The only decent cure for depression is a chocolate croissant.

* I suffer from shoe poverty. I love shoes, I would like to own many pairs of beautiful shoes. But a combination of aggressive sensible-ness and ‘those are too fashionable for me’ inferiority complexes sabotages any attempt to add to my meagre collection.** I have two pairs of work shoes. Only one are really comfortable. On twelve hour days this MATTERS.

** I have decided that strong-willed friends and alcohol are probably necessary to aid me in my endeavours to own more cute footwear.

Some more Eden valley views from Saturday… 

[Written Saturday lunchtime] This is my warm up exercise, since I’m fairly certain I won’t be able to write anything substantial until after lunch. I’m one of those people who are a slave to their blood sugar – particularly when hormones are jumping. I’ve hit the rambling, poor concentration, please-don’t-fall-over stage at the moment.

I am trusting this will be solved by asparagus, shallot and parmesan tart at one of my favourite writing restaurants.

Mmmmmm. Tart.

So far (and it’s only lunchtime) today has been a wonderful antidote to this week. The twisted scowl that had been fixed to my face as a result of stress, tiredness and PMS has been replaced by a beatific smile. There has been sunshine, and beautiful, hidden places, and time to explore.

It occurred to me that I don’t get enough time to explore, to do things just for the joy of it. Recently, I’ve spent so much time rushing from task a to task b, or from place a to place b, even relaxation time has only been what you do in between doing the other stuff.

Relaxation is an end in itself. Your own time is very, very important.

Having said all that, I started my Saturday morning by going to work. Luckily, the work in question was an hour and a half drive to a farmers’ market, to chat to the lady who organises it in advance of an event we’re running next month. So it was work, but it wasn’t exactly a hardship. And, back in the car, duty done, I found myself thinking, “what next?”

I looked at the clock. My fingers skittered over to grab the map. I started to smirk to myself.

Then I did one of my favourite things – I looked at where I was (Brough) and where I wanted to be (home) and chose a circuitous, meandering way to get there, using roads like these.

The winding road… 

The sun was shining, the sky was aggressively blue. I wound my way through limestone hamlets huddled together for warmth, and sleepy sandstone villages dreaming of the glory days of Gentleman Farmers and Lords of the Manor. Sheep watched me pass, stately ash trees dipped their branches, and dark woodlands whispered their enchanting enticements. Come deeper…. Come into the shadows…. Tread lightly on our soft moss and never think to know sunlight again….

My lunch just arrived.

WOO HOOOO!

Where was I?

Ah yes. The glories of the Eden valley. Wish you could have been there. It was fabulous.

Well, since I’m getting some energy back, any more on this post would cross the line from warm up to procrastination, so back to Kier’s big, juicy steak….

It occurred to me that it would be a really bad thing if Husband could learn significantly more about me, and what I was thinking, by reading this blog.

So I am resolved to talk to him about the stuff I post here, too.

Just a thought…

I am not a morning person.

In those perennial “How to Find Time to Write” workshops* the suggestion to gain an hour by getting up a 5am acts on me like kryptonite on Superman, or water on the Wicked Witch of the West.

Melting! I’m meeeeltiiiiiiing!

This morning was different.

This morning I really, really needed to be in work before half eight instead of after half nine, to get some work done before a ten o clock meeting.

There had been a heavy frost overnight, and the sun was just coming up as a I left. I’m very, very lucky where I live, in that I have to drive through the Lake District mountains to get to work.

Picture the pink light of dawn just beginning to hit the moutains, pale yellow sunshine pouring into the shadowed valleys, dispersing the mists that hung alondside woods and rivers. The platinum grey rocks at the mountain’s heads were just dusted with brilliant snow, like diamond dust. Last year’s bracken gleamed gold behind the silver birch in the gullies and ghylls. The whole world was jewelled. And half it’s people were still in bed, and would never see it.

But I was lucky. I saw it.

So, today, I was a morning person. Just once.

*Which are, I hasten to add, generally fantastic!