I have regained my focus. I am totally focused on the pain emanating from my fractured left second metacarpal and associated soft tissue injuries. Boo hoo. Poor me. Just thought I’d get that out of my system (for the next ten minutes at least – then a sympathy top-up may be required).

It was all going so well. I’d booked a remote cottage in N Yorks for five days of inspired, uninterrupted writing with inspiring, uninterrupted – if snowy-sea views. Oh, the things I was going to achieve in a mere 120 hours. After a stern word with myself about the inevitable  creaks of an old cottage and not reading too much into the dog’s random growling (sometimes, my imagination is not helpful),  I settled in front of the woodburner and forged ahead with my Work In Progress, Blues. In time, I even managed to light the woodburner, albeit briefly, which was just as well (electric storage heaters do not count as “central heating” in my (still unfinished) book ). All, however, was cosy and productive.

But, alas (does anyone still say “alack”, too?), dusk of day 3 brought me crashing back to reality. I really shouldn’t blame dusk, as you can’t go round just casting such aspersions, even in our  virtual world. It was more the fault of the sheet ice (so sue me) on the steeply inclined farm track as I returned from checking on my snowbound car, parked on hardstanding, half a mile away. Country people can indeed be very casual about our townie concerns, so there were no yellow cones to tell me snow is slippery and I took a banana skin-style tumble onto my bum (thankfully well padded) and my outstretched hands. Oh, how I laughed as I limped back to my creative base and turned the doorkey with my teeth..

And, oh, how I smiled to myself and the dog as I realised that the agony in my left mitt was not abating and I was snowed in in the dark up a hill and I couldn’t strike a match , even if I could  build a kindling wigwam one-handed. How chipper and up-beat I sounded when my daughter answered the phone (thank heavens for the O2 mast on the hill)and asked how the writing was going. Never mind the flipping writing, just GET YOUR DAD! I may not have said “flipping”. Finally, how I congratulated myself on the pessimistic streak which compelled me to pack painkillers and assorted pharmaceutical panacea which got me through the night with only mild whimpering into the bay below.

Such was my joy when my dear husband reached me the following afternoon with his sledge and nordic pole and snow socks for the car tyres (don’t knock ’em if you haven’t tried ’em), I hereby declare that I haven’t been so happy to see him since he went off to make a few calls and the midwife left me alone (allegedly)and my body decided to bleed to near-death faster than she could could say “hysterical hypochondriac”.

But I digress. My ten minutes must be up, as I feel that familiar yearning for a dose of sympathy, preferably served up with a sad  but admiring shake of the head. And a nice cup of tea. And could you pass my book(open at the right page) and straighten my blanket and cut up my cake for me, please, while you’re on. Much writerly appreciation.