A space of ones own...

So, the writer is in situ.
So far, so good.
But he needs a space to work....
Now, if i need to write something (which isn't very often), i'll do it at the kitchen table. My writing is either letters for school-

Dear Mrs Andrews,
Thankyou for your letter regarding the incident that occured at the School Ball, that involved Darling Daughter.
In her defence, i have always taught her to stand up for herself and that combined with the fact that she has practised kickboxing since the age of three, it would only be a matter of time before the school bully had their come-uppance.
I feel the school should look on the incident as a positive experience- after all, that particular child has caused havoc at the school for some time now, and nothing has been done to stop the appalling behaviour.
Darling Daughter has solved the problem for you in the space of ten minutes.
I'm sorry that the child involved has been hospitalized (Darling Daughter sometimes doesn't know her own strength), but I believe the school should be supporting her, and the least you should do for her now is give her a terms worth of credits.
No doubt i shall be hearing from you (and the bully's parents) again soon regarding this matter.



...or for the ladies i clean for;

Hi Mel,
hope all is well with you!
Had a 'good go' over whole house today-including under your bed.
Found some interesting things, and thought it better to put them back under the bed, as i don't think your kids are quite ready for back massagers yet.

Sy reckons he is going to need a bit more than the kitchen table to work from.
I decide to find out quietly what sort of space a writer needs, so i fire up the laptop and punch 'writers wives' into google, in the hope that i can find others like me.

Google insists that i am actually trying to find 'Readers wives'.

This isn't going to work, so i try 'writers rooms' instead.

I momentarily lapse into a daydream-
Sy tapping away on the laptop, ideas flowing from his mind through the medium of technology, happily leaving his work to help Darling Daughter with her homework and me making him cups of coffee...
Thank God for The Guardian online.
And there they are, writers room after writers room...and i can't believe what i'm seeing.
As i click on each room, i find myself looking through my fingers at the screen- room after room, covered with books, paper, good luck charms, pens, waste paper bins overflowing with paper, more books, the odd vase of flowers (probably put there for the photographer)...and somewhere, in each picture is a computer.
I should write to The Guardian and suggest a competition- Find The Computer-and maybe the winner could get a years supply of books from their favourite author.
That or a cleaner.
I talk to Sy about what i've found out and he assures me all he would like is a little desk, somewhere quiet.
At which point 'Metallica' start an impromtu concert above our heads and Darling Daughter is accompanying them on her electric guitar.

Eventually, we settle for a desk in the sitting room, and Sy has found a way of shutting out all surround sound.

But i think men are pretty bloody brilliant at doing that anyway.

If he needs to write with no interuption at all, he will work as many nights as it takes, or go away to his parents holiday home for a few days.
But that's something else to talk about.

Till next time

Shakespeare's Housekeeper x