And I love writing.
I love doing what I’m doing at this moment – scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a blackclouded early morning in May – with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.
I love writing on the hoof – in notebooks on walks – in trains and cafés – then scurrying home to pick over my booty.
When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath – tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions and that’s where I like to scribble.
I have only ever written by hand.
Arrogantly perhaps – I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing.
The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.