The sun streams through the French doors, which lead out to the country garden, and my study is bathed once again in a golden wash. My old chair rests itself behind the antique desk which came from the furniture market at Ringwood and upon it, I sit, looking up for inspiration.
Surrounding me are the words of greats; from the first editions of Dickens to the modern classics. A complete set of PG Wodehouse, all ninety-seven, stare down at me from the seventh shelf of the mahogany wall shelves. They whisper to me some mornings, usually words of encouragement, occasionally a funny line, rarely a plot twist… but this morning, I just sit and stare back.
My mind’s distracted by the sun that’s moved round and is now lying seductively across the full-size snooker table. Maybe a few shots will clear the mind, I say to myself, it worked once.
Half an hour later, and instead of words clambering for attention I’m now distracted by the hourly chime on the grandfather clock. Ten o’clock must mean that I’m due another cup of tea, maybe even some biscuits.
‘Dave?’ I say, as I push the button on the old-fashioned intercom on the desk. ‘I’d love a cup of tea, perhaps some biscuits too.’
‘Right you are, Boss,’ he replied.
I’d never had an assistant until a year ago but now I can’t seem to function at all without one. There’s been three altogether; one Mark and two James’ but I’ve called them all Dave because it sounds more appropriate. I was going to choose girls but was concerned about what people may think, also the distraction levels of a Dave are far below the average distraction content of a Dawn or, worse still, a Lucy.
‘You’ve had a phone call, by the way,’ said Dave, as he walked in with a mug of Yorkshire tea. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt, I knew you’d be in full flow.’
‘Hmmm,’ I said, looking out at the garden. ‘Who was it from?’
‘Richard. He just wants to talk with you about the upcoming book tour of the States. Apparently, you agreed to it on Saturday evening while you were at that Ball.’
‘Oh yeah, the Ball. I could’ve agreed to war crimes at the Ball and not been aware. Ok, so what did you say?’
‘Nothing much. I said that you’d call him this evening, I hope that’s alright?’
‘I’m meant to be out on the boat this evening, mind you, I suppose I could call him on board. Ok, fine, thanks. Anything else?’
‘No, a quiet morning really.’
‘Yes, it is. What about the rest of the week?’
‘The signing on Wednesday and I’ve got down that you still want to go to the set on Thursday.’
‘Yeah, I must admit I like going down to the set. Ok, if that’s it then, I suppose I should get something down this morning. I’ll see you at lunchtime.’
Dave left through the hidden door that was masked to resemble a continuation of the book shelves. A feature which had always been on my list since watching Batman as a boy. Maybe I’ll just go and drink this cup of tea outside before I properly start work, after all, it’s such a lovely morning.
As soon as I feel the cool breeze upon my face, the sounds of the birds become obvious. I’m not usually a fan of birds, I don’t mean in a phobic kind of way, but I can take or leave them. However, on a summer’s morning like this, the sound of birdsong only works to emphasise the glory. Whenever I hear it I always travel back to the first time I heard the beginning of Blackbird by The Beatles. It’s funny how sound can do that. Smell’s the same, maybe even more so, but sight and touch hardly ever. It’s probably a quirk with the senses.
From where I’m sat, it looks as though the turf rolls on and on until eventually it drops off into the sea. I know there’s a small wooden jetty at the very end separating the two but that’s invisible from here. I used to live in a house where I could lay down and reach from the edge of the house to the end of the backyard and now, instead, I get to look out at the sea. Incredible really when you think that it’s just from me, making up stuff like I’ve always done.
And talking about making up stuff, I should probably go indoors now and make up a few more words to keep the wolves from the door. Who knows how long it’ll be before I’m found out and hauled through the streets as a charlatan? It can’t be long.
Oh, that gives me an idea. What if the protagonist was to come back in a different costume, pretending to be someone else? Too obvious? Maybe. Ah, but what about if ten years had past? That might work. Let’s get on it again… monday morning’s almost over.