It's Christmas and what better way to celebrate than by murdering a much-loved poem? So, with profuse apologies to Eleanor Farjeon, here goes. You may want to look away now...
I write anywhere:
Kitchen table, office chair,
Planes and buses, moving cars,
On the top of hotel bars,
In queues and cafes, bathroom stall.
(but on a notepad, not the wall)
I have no shed or studio,
Or anywhere that I can go,
To hide away from kids or wife,
So public writing is my life.
My habit is on full display,
To anyone who comes my way,
It makes me feel a little shirty,
As if I'm doing something dirty.
But almost no-one ever asks,
About my funny scribbling tasks,
Except a lady on a train,
From Birmingham, who picked my brain,
And said she'd love to write and rhyme,
Except she couldn't find the time.
Her words made me feel kind of sad,
But also that I wasn't mad,
To catch ideas before they flew.
(I wrote that bit in B&Q)
This fiction lark takes months and ages,
Ink and pixels, words and pages.
A quiet moment's pretty rare,
So that's why I write anywhere.