Working from home is all about self-discipline. So is being a writer. No one’s making me do it. No one’s standing at my shoulder saying, ‘Finish that book or you won’t get any chocolate.’ It’s just me. And Harry, of course, but he’s no help. As far as he’s concerned, I should be lying on the sofa with him purring on my lap.

So this past week has been a spectacularly bad one as far as self-discipline is concerned. All I really wanted to do was start working on the book I’m not writing – and that’s the trap. The next book always looks so appealing. I have a notebook for it sitting on the sofa in my office, and every now and again some of the characters in that notebook crawl off the sofa and whisper in my ear, saying that they are so much nicer than the Fetcher characters, and if I’d only give them a chance, the words would flow so much more easily, and the ideas would come so quickly, and I could probably write the whole thing in three weeks.

Ha. I am not fooled.

‘You’re lying,’ I say. ‘As soon as I let you up here on the screen you’ll be just as difficult as the characters I’m wrestling with at the moment. You might even be worse. Go away. Be quiet. Vamoose. Let me get on with the edit of Fetcher.’

That went on all week. In between fierce arguments with non-existent people I did manage to get a bit done, but not as much as I had hoped. So I’ll have to work over Easter. And I am going to be very self-disciplined. No arguments. No (ahem) checking my email. Or Facebook. Or any of the other traps. Head down, bum up. And write.

Except it won’t be head down, bum up, because I now have a standing desk. I’ve been wanting one for a while, but have only just got around to doing something about it. And oh, the elegance of my new standing desk! The beauty! The style!

It’s the perfect height for me. I’m wondering if I should patent it …