I hate not writing: miss the mixing of blood and fairy dust. Whether this is because writing makes me feel happier than anything else, or if there's some weird psychological imbalance going on, I don't know. Perhaps all those people who doubted my sanity were right after all. I tend to think it's a combination of all those things. There are always ups and downs in life, and there are an awful lot of them if you write for a living.

Right now it doesn't help that we are undergoing the removal of an old kitchen plus the floor beneath it, and the installation of new. There are builders, there is dust, and the contents of the kitchen are stored in our living room. The dog is dusty and terribly confused. My study is immediately above the kitchen and I'm confused too. Where are the teabags? Where is my one mug?

Although I've invested in earplugs, they don't work brilliantly, especially as I still have to hear if I'm called, or if the doorbell goes. Luckily I have a day away tomorrow. I shall be in London for a meeting with my publisher and my publicist. So moan over. I'll paint my nails gold, we'll have a shiny new kitchen soon, and I'll get over this hump in the twinkle of an eye, or at least before I can say, 'Now where did I save that plot outline? Oh no! Don't tell me ...'