I’ll never write that novel

Last night I found, under the bed, a suede notebook my husband had bought me back in January. It was supposed to be my ‘Book of Inspiration’, where I could jot down plots for children’s novels, brilliant business ideas, snatches of dialogue to work into my bonkbuster, etc. I wondered where it had disappeared to. Anyway, I blew the dust off and opened it; all the pages were blank apart from one, where I’d written ‘Biscuits’. Whether it was a book idea or a shopping list, I haven’t a clue. But I think it sums up the last 11 months pretty succinctly.