I sat down at my new writing table for the first time today. We found it in a little antique shop in town. It fits perfectly under the window, so that I am inspired by the forever green hills of West Wales
To you, it seems perhaps a modest purchase, a humble 1950's formica topped specimen, with a lovely old green bakerlite handle and you would be right, except this table is almost identical to the one my Nan and Grandad had in their kitchen, tucked behind the door next to the food larder and an under-stairs cupboard where they hid during the blitz.
Sitting at this table brought back feelings of being loved, cared for, nurtured, safe. It made my heart sing to remember my grandparents in this way.
Perhaps that is why, when I put my pen to paper, the story I had intended to write dissipated as if it had never existed and instead, I wrote in my notebook ...
Why does fear play such a big part of my life?
It was a question that answered itself. Before I had even finished asking it, my inner sanctum took the pen from me and made her mark, flowing endlessly upon the paper.
A table to the naked eye, yet a safe haven, it would seem, for the writer.