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.
Absolutely loved Mrs Hemingway from start to finish. Thank you for the escape . . .