I guess I am down to the bare bones of it. No more excuses now that the new writing desk is in place. I spent the last six days trying to find a suitable one. It could only be three feet wide and I wanted something simple and understated. I wanted something to suit my writing. I drove around today trying to figure out some remaining stores that I had not visited and there before me stood the Bedroom Company with its sale signs plastered in bright red in the middle of the large glass windows. My new desk was waiting for me. I knew it as soon as I walked into the store. It was half price for a start and it was authentic wood, not something plastic and cheap looking. I bought it straight away and loaded it up into the jeep. When I got home I enlisted hubby to help me bring it upstairs to its new home. I sit at it right this minute. It feels good. To my right I can look out the window and see the gorse in full bloom, bright yellow and the bog still brown after the winter and the Mountain Ash towering as tall as the window just starting to break open, its lime green buds resemble a funky chandelier I once saw in a store in Santa Monica. I love my new abode. It feels safe. It feels like I can produce here. Write the novel and forget about everything else below and beneath these wooden floors. Here I have space. To breathe and create. My old writing room might be transformed yet, perhaps a music room for my sons. Down there, wrapped into the cherry coloured walls, all my tokens and pieces of art and old metro tickets from Paris lie, the Rodin poster lovingly salvaged from a cafe in Paris and veined love letters from my children hang, down there my dusty saxophone sits in the corner and my beloved books murmur and haunt from the shelves. But here , here I have no distraction, nothing to take my eye from the words I want to write. Up here, there is only the sound of the bell from the tree and the moody cuckoo, who calls only when the land is warm and there is the sound of my heartbeat too, the faint pitter patter as I run my hand along the desk, it makes a sound, nothing discernible but if you were to listen closely, to bend your head close to the source, you might hear the sound of my palm, the skin and the bone as it gently skims the painted surface, wishing away the layers.