It’s a good thing I’m writing this on a laptop because I tend to talk with my hands. So if you interrupted me in the middle of typing, I might have knocked the typewriter onto my toes so I could gesticulate wildly as I answer you. As it stands, the laptop is still safe: for the moment. I live in a second-storey flat that I’m constantly filling with old and beautiful things: including my husband, and two guinea pigs.
In my imagination, I’m an “Anne of Green Gables”, writing so fast that my papers are pouring out of my arms and blowing away in the wind, and using such fancy phrases as “dock aboding” …but in reality I’m writing my next composition in my head while I stand at my tiny little sink trying to catch up on a cascading pile of dirty dishes.