You get to build your perfect space for reading and writing. What’s it like?

Deep in the woods is a little house. Smoke curls up from the chimney. A black cat with short white socks stretches on the front porch. A rocking chair is placed on either side of the freshly painted door. A soft turquoise, matt. Silver metal work gleams.

As the sun goes down, a light comes on and she appears. With a saucepan in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other  she gently bangs ( maybe ‘ gently bangs’ is an oxymoron? You tell me)  the two together, many times in succession. ‘ Kuti, Kuti, Kuti’ she calls, and an elderly Jack Russell appears, runs up the steps, brushes past her, and disappears inside. The cat follows.

The emerald of her fisherman’s smock, the blue of her Levis, and the mulicoloured paisley scarf tied around her head are a vision of grace. She turns and enters into the warm and cosy place she loves. The perfect writer’s retreat.