Image: © Davy D Writer
A scene from La Casa Azul. Hitchcock hues spread across a canvas. Not too much, a deft balance of monotone. No birds or bladed shower curtains. A gift from an ex, an agnostic tethered in braille. If you look closer, you can see a fading collage of nimbus creeping behind a sharp horizon.
I move my gaze downwards to a landscape of paper monoliths staring from a cluttered desk. How many custard creams does it take to spark some inspiration? The sugar rush carries me into a long forgotten sweet shop; Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls, Rhubarb and Custard, Flying Saucers.
‘Fancy a cuppa?’ Another distraction as a welcome mug of Yorkshire tea is passed into the writing den, breaking a vague attempt to push a pen across a desolate page.
Her tea tray shouts ‘Lagom’ – Not too much – Not too little.’
I would be glad of a small slice of either. I try some stretching, a preference of saw planks to downward dogs, in the hope some words might be released from creaking bones.
‘Keep challenging yourself,’ the self-help book said. Maybe it is time to declutter, enter a period of self-composting. The pen is hibernated once more, and I return to heaven, a faithful old book, and the warmth of a laundry cupboard.