WHERE THE WORDS GET WRITTEN

This is the fairly un-glamorous place I do my writing. It’s probably typical of many Londoners’ desks. No space. Nowhere to put your legs. The chair is from the dining-room.  The pillow on my bed occasionally pushes against the pen-pot and things fall over in the middle of the night. Really, there’s nary a spare inch to work on, but it’s good enough for me. I feel happy here, in this nook of my bedroom, thinking up ideas for much more exotic lands than this one. And besides, it’s near the radiator.

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