I lose myself here, lose track of time, and if words are pouring out of my pen I might even lose track of what day it is if I am deep in the luxury of time off from the day job. This is my den, my solitude place, my nest, but also the place I share with friends when I serve dinner and cool wine in the candlelight.
This wood is worn dull by the movement of my arm across miles of pages every year, a place with dark remnants of ink in the deeper grain, and that strange tattoo of etched calligraphy that spelt out my furious argument to someone years ago. Now it has faded to a moody stem of ivy, looking like it has come straight from a book of fairy stories.
It is a place to stand a vase of fragrant flowers, a photo of my favourite beach. This is the heart of my home.