Outside I can see a plastic watering can, child-size, lying in the middle of my lawn. My living room is cluttered with toys; a stuffed dragon beside me on the sofa, a selection of puzzles half in and half out of their boxes, a piece of white paper with a single orange felt-tip line stands proud in the centre of the carpet. A normal scene, an everyday scene. Nothing has changed, all is still.
Yet, if I look out of the other window I can see the first buds bursting into their pink blousy glory on my neighbour’s cherry tree. A birch shows the green haze promise of early leaves. The wood shed, full to bursting last September, sits empty. In other words, Spring is coming. Or the potential of it at least.
I am travelling to London today.
As a mere fact, it is nugatory. I have been many times. I shall go many times more. Yet this trip is different, feels different somehow. I shall be writing a different book on the train, for starters. The first time book two will make its public outing and be worked on outside of a quiet space. I am away for three nights, slightly longer than normal, more opportunity to write (and what is more delicious than an anonymous, distraction-free hotel room in which to work?).
But, as with the promise of change in seasons outside my living room window, the promise of change lurks in the preparations for my trip away. I’ll meet with my agent, discuss my work and career, discuss the future and perhaps that is it, the difference. For the first time, I am faced with one element of certainty in this, the most uncertain of careers. Spring is just around the corner, that season of growth, change, new beginnings; for my work as well as my garden.
We shall see, in time, which blossoms shall burst forth.