Now it is winter I am increasingly feeling like a hedgehog, or some other hibernating animal, hidden under two blankets, and can be usually found on the sofa. Sometimes my pulse lowers to extraordinary low levels. I know this, because in winter there is bugger all else to do – well that I like doing – than being cosy inside, and well, taking my heart rate (it is easy and involves not much energy to do).
I have tried outdoor pursuits. I love the idea of getting up early and going to watch the murmurations. Yes, I’m all talk. The reality is that I am not an outdoor person in less than clement weather. Perhaps in the ‘old days’, whenever they were, had I been born into a wealthier family, I may have gone south for the winter. Sat in some café in Malta, or even further afield, perhaps Morocco, to take in the warm air and avoid the incessant darkness that descents on us all in good ole’ England at this time of year.
But although I love my father dearly, wealthy he’s not, so here I am, inside, just at four fifteen in the afternoon, with a single light on. Alone (I like my own company, don’t feel sorry for me), writing. Sometimes I think I get more done in the winter, writing that is. Because of the limited opportunities for a scaredy-cat like me – not out kite surfing, I take advantage and sit at my computer.
It makes me wonder how many other writers are more productive at this time of year. I suspect the answer is most. So I should thank the bleak days and the long nights for one thing. For giving me more time to scribble and scratch in my brain for ideas to translate onto the page. Of course, there is always more time for sleep too, my second favourite pastime.
I have tried outdoor pursuits. I love the idea of getting up early and going to watch the murmurations. Yes, I’m all talk. The reality is that I am not an outdoor person in less than clement weather. Perhaps in the ‘old days’, whenever they were, had I been born into a wealthier family, I may have gone south for the winter. Sat in some café in Malta, or even further afield, perhaps Morocco, to take in the warm air and avoid the incessant darkness that descents on us all in good ole’ England at this time of year.
But although I love my father dearly, wealthy he’s not, so here I am, inside, just at four fifteen in the afternoon, with a single light on. Alone (I like my own company, don’t feel sorry for me), writing. Sometimes I think I get more done in the winter, writing that is. Because of the limited opportunities for a scaredy-cat like me – not out kite surfing, I take advantage and sit at my computer.
It makes me wonder how many other writers are more productive at this time of year. I suspect the answer is most. So I should thank the bleak days and the long nights for one thing. For giving me more time to scribble and scratch in my brain for ideas to translate onto the page. Of course, there is always more time for sleep too, my second favourite pastime.