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My writing routine involves a magic desk.

I’ve been a bit busy lately so I am cheating and pasting a post I wrote for a guest blog on another site. It hasn’t gone up yet and it does fit into a diary type thing because it describes my, usual/ideal, writing routine. When I have the time I will try and make legal book deposits and ISBN registrations sound interesting.

My writing routine feels like an odd thing to write about. Writing about my writing feels a bit like holding a mirror up to a mirror? Photographing my desk is also strange, seeing it as others might makes me realise that it might do with a slight tidy. My kitchen, where I find it most convenient to write, is also in the process of being done up. But it doesn’t bother me, so…

My desk begins the day as a breakfast table. This morning I defrosted some Pastéis de Nata to go with strong coffee, black for my beloved, with cream for the youngest. The oldest is off living his life now; job done for the most part. Our breakfasts are varied as neither me nor the youngest are particularly morning people; not really awake enough to eat. His dad is a morning person and very chirpy first thing, which is somewhat challenging. By half past eight, I have not murdered my husband, so far, and everyone has cleared up and cleared off, the squirrels are fed and I have had a cheeky cigarette.

Now I have a desk by the window so that I can stare out of it from time to time. Today Hackney, East London, England, is sunny and bright and that is how I feel. I open up the piece I’m working on and read through enough to get my bearings. Then I’m off until the machine bleeps to tell me it’s time to hang up some washing, and have a coffee and a cigarette.

If I am stuck on a section or need to have a think I wander down to the old grave yard and drink a coffee under the trees. I love it there. People are coming and going and I can get a sense of the seasons as I look up into the branches and then on to the sky. I don’t get stuck often enough.

Then it’s back to clickety clacking until my youngest comes home for lunch. We eat; today it was yesterday’s ravioli and some pie. This afternoon he was on the phone to his girlfriend who doesn’t seem to mind conversation con pasta. He goes back to school and I type again until his homecoming tells me its time for a cup of tea and for him to work at his desk, which is a desk.

I get another hour or two of writing in and then what are actually two old tables that belonged to my beloved’s Aunty Ruby, transform again; into the dinner table. Tonight its Chili because the youngest loves spice. The wonderful man who is supporting all this activity will be hungry and tired, but no doubt still cheerful and we will all finally be able to talk to each other.

That Parsley's dead now.

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