We writers are, it's well documented, an anti-social bunch. Now and again we can be tempted into gatherings, fuelled by drink, where we'll make animated conversation about books which should have been published and competitions we might have won. But our natural habitat is solitude - lots of time, lots of paper, and words buzzing round in our heads. Last week Linda was on a residential singing course, taking the car with her, leaving me marooned in Much Wenlock with an idea for a play. That meant I could extend the dining room table, spread out my notes, and leave them there in state for the rest of the week. I know there are fancy computer programmes which will do all that for you, but for me nothing beats the beauty of little piles of scribbled notes, marshalled by bright orange post-its. Every morning I woke up to the sound of voices, my imaginary characters getting more voluble by the day. Sheer bliss.