My new writing room

I have a confession to make. I've written most of my last two books sitting on my bed. It wasn't by choice. When I moved into a falling-down Edwardian house in London two years ago, one of the things I loved about it was the boxroom overlooking the garden. It would, I told the rest of the family, be MY room - my writing room. Yet my optimism was short-lived. The house had been rented out for years, and was coming apart at the seams. It transpired that the window in my 'writing room' was rotten and dangerous. The ceiling was falling down. It was so cold I went to turn on the radiator, ony to discover there wasn't one. It had to be rewired. The wall turned out to me a mismatch of old plaster and a plasterboard partition, and the door didn't fit the space. So I started my novel sitting on my bed instead.

Skip to two years later, one bankruptcy (that's a joke, sort of), and one almost-divorce (my husband hates DIY), my writing room is finally finished. As a home-based journalist I used to have a clean, white office space with shelves and a large table for my sources and folders and files. I wanted something different for this room. As a child I spent holidays with my uncle who was a gamekeeper at a Scottish castle and it's left me with a life-long love of grand, dusty old libraries. So this is my mini-version. I call it Bodleian-meets-boxroom. I've filled it with exotic, vintage floral wallpaper (which will stop my husband getting any ideas about sharing it), an Edwardian chair that my mum found in a junkshop when I was 15 that I've been trying to wangle off her ever since, a hundred-year-old writing desk I found on ebay, teetering shelves for all my books, and the photos and postcards and pictures that have come from places and people who've inspired me to write along the way.

Now I've just got to actually get in there and start using it.