The world from my window

I’m on the Isles of Scilly with friends, the weather’s been glorious and there’s been lots of walking, paddling in the clear waters and spirited conversation. But the thing I’ve been most looking forward to, ever since I discovered a cairn at the top of the hill behind the house we’re staying in, is to take myself off for a couple of hours to read in complete solitude. Not just any book, though. The novel is one in which I’ve wanted to immerse myself ever since I ordered it. After it arrived, it sat on the chest of drawers next to my bed, on top of David Nicholl’s Sweet Sorrow , John Lanchester’s The Wall , and Stephen King’s The Outsider . I’d been given a book token and went a bit mad. My literary tastes are somewhat eclectic but a good friend tells me the common denominator is the quality of the prose. ‘You like good writing, don’t you?’ she said. I hadn’t actually thought much about it before but she’s absolutely right. I wince at adverbs (

The school holidays have come to an end, with children already hunkered down in the new school year. University students are settling into their accommodation before the studying begins, and college kids are getting used to a different routine every morning. I love autumn and that change in the seasons, from the hurly burly of summer to a more contemplative, meditative time of year. New beginnings and all that. For me, that means returning to that wonderful place of learning, The Open University , where I'm just about to start a masters degree in creative writing. At fifty-eight, it was now or never because my eligibility for a student loan runs out at the age of sixty. As soon as I discovered that, the choice was already made. It was, in an expression I absolutely loathe, a no-brainer. My degree years with the OU from 2007-2011 were among the most creative I've ever experienced.  The culture of supportive learning was a real tonic and stood me in good stead. I'

On Sunday morning, there are two sheep sauntering in a very confident manner down the street. Unfazed by the local peloton of cyclists zooming past in formation, the sheep look right, look left and then look right again before crossing the main road, heading in the direction of Lyme Regis. They'll be corralled in a garden soon, way before they have the chance to place their towels out on the sand or frolic about with buckets and spades. Their adventure will probably be over within minutes. But they're out there, giving it a go. I am out here too, with two little girls laden with sweets from the village shop, each one far exceeding their £2 allowance, Young children are canny like that. They knew I'd lose count once the liquorice bootlaces and fried egg candies started going in the basket at speed. There were just too many figures to add up in my head. Unlike the sheep or indeed their grandmother, who got a grade three CSE in maths three times (even with private tu