So, we’re in the middle of August and by now I’ve forgotten I’m a writer. There is the harvest to bring in from the allotment, the house to spring clean (in late summer), numerous projects both indoors and out. Even my reading has petered out. So there I was in the bathroom this morning – confession time – wearing nothing but my dressing gown and a stupid hood with holes in it, hooking some hair through to do some highlighting as if I were wiring myself up for a brain scan. Enter husband. I throw towel over my head. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Please don’t ask.’ So while I stand there, about as humiliated and embarrassed as it is possible to be, he starts to tell me why he was late to bed last night, because my typescript had kept him until 3am, and that this novel is my best yet, and he’s married to a great writer, and I stand there thinking, ‘Please go away and let me dye my hair in peace.’ But as I wash the foul and loathsome stuff off – I promise I will never do it again – I’m thinking, perhaps I should go some way to justifying all this praise by doing some work. And then I remembered my golden rule: Put Writing First. Let all the projects, the chores, the social joys, let them all be breaks, pauses, refreshments from the daily work, which is writing. So stop reading this blog and get back to it…!