OK, I admit, it’s a dump. The walls are stained. Ragged towers of assorted crap are teetering. There’s barely room to move. But it’ll be home for the next few months.
I’ve worked in many offices – from rooms over shops to shiny tower blocks with carpets and free coffee – but this is my favourite.
The room I use at home as an office is more like a cramped cockpit. Behind the rickety swivel chair are piles of family tree research stuff, obsolete bits of computer, broken model aircraft and a dusty and war-weary Action Man.
There are unwanted presents hidden from the giver, a Dr Who pen box, carbon monoxide detector, assorted CDs, a small Buddha, a plaster dental caste from a long-capped tooth and a Stars ‘n’ Stripes given to me at a war cemetery in Normandy.
The layers upon layers would keep Time Team busy digging for a whole series.
The nictotine-stained walls are covered with a mish-mash of calendars, posters and certificates, a world map (complete with map pins) and assorted pistol targets.
There’s a corkboard sagging under the weight of memorabilia, crisscrossed with old press passes hanging from their ribbons.
But I start writing my third Danny Lancaster crime thriller next week and this will be home until it’s done.
Even when my body leaves the room for food, sleep or the occasional beer, my mind will still be hovering over the keyboard, itching to crack on with the next bit.
Bring it on!
BUTT OF A JOKE: I’m trying to cut down on smoking in my cubbyhole using an electronic cigarette with limited success. Crossing a busy dual carriageway in Sydney once I dropped a pack of Rothmans in the fast lane. I ducked down to snatch it from the path of oncoming traffic. When I regained the pavement the Aussie standing next to me said, “Smoking’ll kill you, mate.”
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