I’ve started to worry that my brain will soften in the unaccustomed heat. Maybe it already has. We are now in about the sixth day of an actual summer here, the first one we’ve had for years. Edinburgh was one of the hottest places in the UK yesterday.
I keep falling over recumbent cats everywhere around the house and garden. George (above) has wisely moved up a level to sleep on the table in the conservatory.
As anyone who is a frequent reader of this blog will know, I am a very contrary person, so naturally I’m currently writing about a cold, damp, dim, grim February. At first I sent my characters to north Norfolk, where I made them stumble across a murder in the first chapter, and now I’ve realised I need to send someone to Cornwall, which is a slight surprise as they previously had no known connection with the place. It isn’t exactly an unpleasant surprise, although planning it has been slightly unnerving for me as my mind immediately sprang to the St Ives School, which I think is a sign I’ve been working in an art gallery too long. I’m about to start the section headed ‘Spring’, but don’t worry, this doesn’t mean the chapters will be full of daffodils and April showers. I’m already planning for a serious snow-storm later, as well as some peril, threats and so on.
In the intervals of writing, I’ve been doing some stealth gardening. By ‘stealth’ I mean I have to deceive myself into doing it by pretending only to be wandering round the garden with secateurs in my hand. Usually this means I will be perched on a pile of stones hacking away at a recalcitrant shrub before my brain has caught up and said ‘no, that’s too much for you’.