Sunday 23rd May

Day 24

I have breakfast in bed alone as my husband travels north on a train. A trio of sliced fruits on a white plate - straw blonde pear, red purple plum and marigold orange persimmon. The pear verges on too ripe, the plum is just this side of sour and the persimmon is perfect - sweet, soft. It is also my favourite - a porthole to that December week I spend with my sisters in Portugal every year. And this year the excitement of meeting a new friend there who we found from a message in a bottle - another story.

Nearly all day I read Stephen King’s book “On Writing - A Memoir of the Craft” and I’m enthralled, transported. Although I’d never read a horror story he has magic to say about how to write.My knees get sunburnt and I eat my salad turning the pages. I drop a lemon- oily rocket leaf on the paper and imagine what it would be like to be a novelist.

Much later, when the air is cooler I walk down to the allotment. Again and again I carry two heavy watering cans from the tank at the side of the path to the raised beds where rows of broccoli and bean seedlings, lettuces and strawberries are wilting. I promised my husband I’d keep them alive today. Coming home, flip flops muddy, I think about what it would be like to live alone - not just for one summer Sunday - but every day just me. I think how brave my friends are who manage this task - more of a craft really.