|Picture from art of the prank website|
For the last two days I've been forced to work away from home because we've had the builders in the flat. I've decamped into the safe bubble of Soho House, and while trying delve into the deep recesses of my mind, I've not been able to resist half-listening to the conversations around me. As Jojo Moyes noted at the Shoreditch House Literary Salon yesterday evening, writers are the nosiest of people (I know Damian reminded us we were to follow Chatham House rules, but I'm sure this is not any kind of revelation).
Listening to people talk business of all kinds in the bar at Soho House (I'm a gentlewoman enough not to break the Soho House rules and kiss & tell) has, though, been a real revelation. It's got me thinking that if they can do it so can I.
Sitting alone at home with the Macbook and the terrier for company, trying to complete the daily target of 1,000 words of my latest manuscript is depressive, even in the city. Being alone anywhere seems to make my confidence slump. If it wasn't for the lovely bookshop I'm sure I'd be a manic depressive by now. Even in London, where I can get out at any time, I still actually need to go out and find people to interact with - even if it is just to eavesdrop on their conversation.
It's OK, I know I'm a strange fish indeed.