It's The Face Itself That I Love,

She Wondered If She Was Doomed To Be One Of Those People Who Spend Their Lives Trying Things.

The True Writer, The Born Writer, Will Scribble Words On Scraps Of Litter, The Back Of A Bus Tickets, On The Wall Of A Cell.

Sometimes I Wish That I Hadn't Learned How To Crochet," I Say, And Alice Laughs. Obviously She Thinks I'm Joking, Which Is Maybe For The Best.

Time To Tidy Up Your Life. Time To Start Again.

I Still Find It Absurdly Difficult To Concentrate On A Novel If There's A Phone Or Computer To Hand; I Have Taken To Locking Them Outside The Room Like Noisy Pets.