It’s a narrow room at the top of the house, probably a corridor in the original Georgian structure. Door at one end, window at the other. I bought a refurbished pine table to use as a desk. A glass display cabinet with not much in it–the two volume Shorter Oxford, some handwritten journals from the 1980s, a fan heater, an ashtray I bought when I was eighteen, the old cat in his little cardboard container. It looks like a cabinet in a junk shop, a display of ageing items assembled but not in any sense collected. I don’t want books where I work; they’re on the next floor down. I don’t want paperwork near me any more; that which hasn’t gone to the recycler is in the cellar. One picture, placed so I don’t see it from the desk. I sit near enough the window to get some light during the day, not near enough to become interested in anything but the roofline of Downes the greengrocer across the road. On the new desk, from left to right: terabyte drive in a black case; Mac Mini, on a slate place-mat to protect the desk from waste heat; 19″ ViewSonic flat screen; keyboard from an original iMac; transparent laser mouse with all its internal gizmos lit up red. Nothing else to catch the eye, except some seashells & fossils on the windowsill. A young jade plant in a plain pot. Late afternoon, two lamps project fans of light on the long wall behind the computer. No calendars, progress charts, pinboards, index cards, plot diagrams, lists of characters and their trait paradigms. No filing boxes. Oak floorboards black with use. Orange Mexican rug. The street fills up with rain, dusk, cars swoosh past, rush hour in Shropshire. I sit at the desk and my back aches from moving things about.