12th May

Sitting on my arse eating chocolate and watching evening racing from Ludlow is far easier than climbing the loft stairs and finishing my novel. That’s the thing about setting yourself tasks. No matter how enjoyable the activity in question, having to do it instantly makes it less appealing.

I had my first real angel/devil on the shoulder moment last night. I was about an hour into my three-hour stretch when I thought: “Maybe I’ll just turn it in for the night, watch a bit of telly.” Well, I’d proved to myself I could stick it out for two consecutive days. I’m happy to report, though, that shoulder angel won out.

When I was thirteen, I decided I was going to embark on a regime of press-ups every day. We were going on a family holiday a few months later and I wanted to make sure I looked good for the girls on the beach in Lanzarote. It was an exercise programme I was to follow for a decade. If I hadn’t done my press-ups I’d get antsy, and a day wasn’t a day unless and until I’d completed them. Once, we were at a Christmas bash at my parents’ friends’ house. I was fifteen and wearing a rather natty dinner jacket over a t-shirt and jeans – classy. After a couple of beers (well, it was Christmas and my folks were good like that), I realised with a degree of horror that I hadn’t done them. I went into the tiny downstairs toilet and, with toes perched uncomfortably on one side of the bowl and my head all but touching the door, cracked out fifty of the best. I can only imagine what the other party goers thought on seeing a sweaty, dishevelled teenager emerging from that room, panting like a Labrador on a hot day.

For me, writing is the new press-ups.