In four weeks’ time, I will be looking out over the sparkling waters of the Sound of Mull from a squishy sofa in the conservatory of a small Hebridean hotel.
I’ll have a notepad and pen in my hand and I’ll be lost in the colours and sounds of the sky wheeling with gulls and hopefully sunshine, or quite possibly rain. I won’t care which. This is time for me and for my writing.
When I started writing poetry seriously about eight years ago (the day my younger daughter started school full-time) I didn’t have a clue what I was doing – other than trying to mimic my favourite poets of the day namely Billy Collins, Roger McGough, Brian Patten and Adrian Henri – I just needed to write.
I’d been a journalist before the kids were born and while they were at pre-school.