Unlike most of my colleagues, the thought of a writing shed at the bottom of the garden fills me with horror.
I want to be near the front door (in case any of the junk I’ve ordered online arrives), near the telephone (in case someone with only my landline phones to say I’ve just won the Nobel, Booker, or Pulitzer prize), and near the kitchen to keep an eye on the mice.
Besides, I like my teensy office at the front of the house. It has a view of the street, which on a good day includes foxes, criminal activity, and domestic disputes.
My husband likes working at home too, despite having a proper studio nearby, and has filled the spare room with paintings, heaps of drawings, casts for his invention (that will someday make us millions), paints, ink, and the object most likely to be responsible for the eventual demise of our marriage — bits of blue putty rubber moulded into horrible little blue balls that I find all over the house.
So we’re building a painting studio in the back garden.
When I showed my husband the plans, he looked sad. “You don’t love me anymore.”
“What? I’m building you the world’s most beautiful studio!”
“Then you’ll change the locks. You’ll get on with your life and I’ll have to stand at the back door with my nose pressed to the glass.”
“No you won’t,” piped up our 13-year-old. “Mum’ll be living out there too. I’ll let you both in sometimes for a meal. It’ll be nice.”
What the heck. Maybe it will.