Until we moved into our terraced house in Brighton three years ago, I always wrote at a dining room table or from bed. Actually, I still enjoy writing from bed – it feels so decadent! – but I prefer being holed up in my office. My office. Writing those two words still feels strange; I can’t believe there is a dedicated space just for me and my work, even if it does occasionally double up as a spare room.
I’m often at my desk at around 5.30am, a habit that I got into just after my son was born, terrified that I wouldn’t get any writing done during the day. Now I don’t even need to set an alarm clock. I love my desk – it’s wide and long and white – and my ergonomic chair, which was incredibly expensive about ten years ago but worth every penny. The shelf directly above my desk holds many of my favourite books and the view onto the garden is colourful and interesting, especially in spring.
I can’t tell you how much I love this room. I feel so privileged to have my own space and I spend a ridiculous amount of time rearranging things, tidying, hanging pictures, even painting the walls. My husband complains that I need to give the rest of the house the same level of care, but I can’t stop trying to make this room perfect. I finished Ridley Road and got my book deal while I’ve been in here, so it deserves my constant attention. It’s a lucky space.
Ridley Road by Jo Bloom is out now.