It is hard to be a writer. If indeed that is what I can aspire to be.
Oh to be one of the lucky people who can block out extraneous noise and carry on unperturbed.
No, I need quiet. And lots of it.
A Shepherd’s Hut is what I need. Or an outhouse converted into a writer’s den.
Or even (ho ho ho) an extended sojourn in the Caribbean.
Picture the scene if you will.
Mike spends the first half of the morning on the phone. The external walls may be thick, internal partitions are not. And nor is the floor between him and me. As it transpires, the floor is not very thick at all. It’s hard to concentrate on my own words when I can hear every one of his.
The second half of the morning he returns to the decorating upstairs in the study.
“Can you spare me a moment to hold on to this board?”
“Do you want to come and see how it’s looking now it’s sanded?”
etc etc etc.
The phone rings again. A matter connected to my late mother’s affairs and they will only speak to me.
The drone of the sander is replaced by hammering.
The doorbell rings. Someone is at the gate.
It’s the postman. “I’ve got a letter needs a signature.” 84 steps up to the top of the hill. 84 steps back.
I’d better think about getting lunch.
And just as that thought is gaining traction in my head..
The heavens open.