Working on new idea for novel number three while my wonderfully perceptive agent, James, combs the tats out of novel number two. So working on something new which means thinking time. AKA looking around my towers of papers, turrets of books and the sea of wood that is my desk with its flotsam and jetsam. My desk appals most people. It's like my bedroom when I was a teenager. I could live my whole in that room and ditto from this desk as a supposed Grown Up With Responsibilities. Make-up. Bottle of water. Probably not drinkable. Magazines with my stories in, magazines without. Harrumph. Head phones to listen to missed radio programmes, and recorded bits of novel, printer, computer, hard drive, DVDs, pens that work, pens that don't work. Pencils with points, pencils without. Hand gel. Next year's diary. Two in fact. An Australian ten dollar note. Fisherman's Friends because of the sore throat. I'm singing on Saturday. Sorry all you dentists. What can a person do? Promise to floss. Yup, there's some of that here somewhere.  A book which tells me how to get an egg inside a bottle and back out = Important Research for Short Story Which Magazine Might Buy. Harrumph again. 1955 song book complete with chords for keyboard. Tub of elastic bands. Hand cream. Scissors which won't cut a thing. What are serrated scissors meant to cut? Cheap serrated scissors. Pound store serrated scissors. The only thing they do is look like crocodile jaws. A red glove. My favourite perfume. Just sprayed myself and the room with it. Gorgeous.  Train tickets for London. There's more and more, but, just for the record, no mouldy food or mugs with foam floating in the dregs. So I'm not a complete Grown Up Slob With Responsibilities. There's more but my feet are getting cold, sitting. So got to get off the chair and have a look about the room, find something to tidy up, have some thinking time. Keep you posted.