Have you ever wondered about your favourite writers and where they created their masterpieces?  I always imagine them in cold garrets, wearing fingerless gloves, a pile of crumpled paper lying around them.  You can tell what I’ve been reading too much of!  I give you the writing spaces of Roald Dahl (the yellow door is very cheery, isn’t it) and George Bernard Shaw, who named his writing hut “London,” so that his message takers could say, “he’s in London”, quite truthfully.  In the middle of these illustrious personages, you have the writing space of S.Marian, exactly the mess I have been describing to you but you didn’t believe me.  No hut for this fledgling writer, just a big old bankers desk, comfortable chaos all around and right in the middle of the house.  I would love to have a space to call my own.  Just look at Mark Twain’s gorgeous gazebo and my favourite, Dylan Thomas’s.  It’s spartan but the light falls just so, the books within reach, the crumpled papers on the floor (see, didn’t I tell you that’s what writers do) and I could rage, rage against my hutless plight - but I won’t.  For the interested, I have been dedicated glue to my desk and chair today, hardly rising except for tea and the loo.  As I approach the end of chapter two, it’s beginning to feel real to me.  Can you imagine thinking, dreaming and talking about something most of your life (and my life may be a little longer than some of yours) and then doing it?  It’s brilliant, better than chocolate even!  As usual I will ask a question here and will probably not get an answer but here it is anyway - what have you always wanted to do but not yet done?  (If I should be fortuitous enough to receive any replies, I will not be posting unless you ask me to.)