I’m sitting in a cafe within walking distance of my house, wrestling with editorial revisions on THE WIFE’S TALE.

It’s a matter of cutting, building, filling, shaping, filing back, and eventually, polishing. Usually, I don’t have to cut much during revisions but this manuscript ran a little wild.

I’m at a coffee shop called Gas Espresso, which is appropriate. As with many writers, my work is powered by caffeine. The place has an industrial feel, a black interior with road signs on the walls and light bulbs caged in yellow wire, warmed with wooden tables and chairs and a hardwood floor. There’s fake grass laid down as a welcome mat which might seem out of step, but somehow it works. The music swings from country to rock to hip hop and the coffee is strong and smooth.

Working away to the hiss of steam and the whir of beans grinding and the buzz of conversation.

Next week, I go to London and the Isle of Wight, but I’m trying to forget that. It’s all organised and I need to strip away the anticipation and focus.