Emma Cooper

Pete and I were having a discussion a couple of days ago about how my Writer’s Retreat has been going; we have separately come to the conclusion that it has been a complete disaster. The period since Christmas has been one overwhelmed by grief and loss (and yes, I do know they’re ‘just’ chickens).

Life has changed a lot, but it still goes on. I am reading more – harking back to an earlier period when the first hour or so of my day was reading time, without the need to go outside and see to the chickens.

The picture above is of my office, the room in which I am supposed to write. I took the photo this morning, and the office is in a state of flux, but the although these distinct piles of clutter will be moved on, no doubt others will take their place. The neutral decor is reflected throughout the house – a deliberate decision to make it easier to sell when the time comes, although hardly inspiring.

I have a view out into the garden – again, hardly inspiring on a grey day like today. The room is north facing, and there’s a ring road in the distance that can be quite noisy. The Raptors (the three younger chickens) were also noisy; writing with the window open in the summer became impossible.

Behind my desk is a wall of books. There are some gaps on the shelves as I am having a bit of a clear out. They will gradually be filled; Pete has bought me some new books for my upcoming birthday.

The problem is that I have developed an aversion to my office. I am perfectly happy writing, just not in there. The noisy chickens were part of it; the fact that it has become a bit of a glory hole over the winter isn’t helping, but that at least is easily remedied.

Mind you, once the clutter has been removed it will feel even more sterile. I need a way to inject a bit of life, preferably without spending any money or doing anything too permanent.