Okay, so I know reading has already featured in this series, and now we’ve got writing, but I can faithfully promise that ‘rithmetic will not be making an appearance. Maths does not, never has and, I suspect, will never make me happy. Although I can’t say that any more, because apparently lots of children develop a negative attitude to maths because they’ve picked it up from their parents. And the reason that Britain is not so Great in international league tables is that it is socially acceptable, almost desirable, to be rubbish at maths. Educated, middle-class women like me, who might be embarrassed to say they couldn’t spell properly, or hadn’t read a book for five years, take a perverse pride in announcing that they can’t add up. So, I’m trying not to do that in front of Anna, but on this blog, which Anna is not going to be reading any time soon, I admit that maths do not get on. However, I digress.

The enjoyment I get from writing has been my most significant self discovery of the past few years. I have written at length on this blog, and elsewhere, as to how my need to reclaim some time and mental space for myself from the ups and downs of life as a fulltime mum led to me writing my first novel, Two for Joy. I am still astonished, thrilled and, to be honest, bloody proud of myself that it got published. Not only that, but I went on to write a second novel, To Have and to Hold and a seasonal e-novella, On the Third Day of Christmas. Yay me! As I talked about in my social media post, some of the pleasure I get out of writing my novels and my blog is the knowledge that my words are being read, my ideas are going out into the world and, hopefully, providing other people with enjoyment, interest or amusement. But it’s not just that. Simply the act of writing, sitting down with just my thoughts and my beloved Macbook, and creating something that wasn’t there before, and would never have existed without me, is exhilarating and uplifting. When I’ve had the chance of a few uninterrupted hours writing I get a real high. It’s harder to describe than it probably should be for a writer, but the best analogy I can come up with is that it is the mental equivalent of a spa.

Before it closed (sob, sob) my husband had treated me to a few different days at the Covent Garden Spa. I would swim a few leisurely lengths, relax in the delicious warmth of the jacuzzi, have a massage and stretch out on the loungers with a trashy magazine or a friend to gossip with, and it was sheer bliss. Muscles I didn’t know I had would stretch and relax. Heaven. Just writing this is making me long for a spa day! But a good writing session really does produce those feelings in my mind. To be honest, it is less good for my body – hours hunched over a laptop tend leads to cramped aching shoulders, stiff fingers and sore blurry eyes. But it’s worth it for the mental uplift.

I may not have gone further than my dining room table, or a local cafe, but writing, like reading, gives me an enormous sense of intellectual freedom and potential. It is also the chance to do something of my own in the world, rather than seeing myself only in relation to my family, much as I love them.