Make no mistake, the writer’s life does not consist of lolling about on chaise longues and rifling through a box of violet creams while slugging back the Dom Perignon. Far from it, if you want to be a success in this day and age. And the time around publication is always particularly stressful – although the actual book might have been put to bed some time ago, there are still many things to be done, not least press and publicity. Added to this is the anxiety of how well your book will perform – and the chances are other people will find out before you will. I am not one of those writers who check their Amazon ranking every two minutes – that way madness lies – but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care at all how well my book does!

It’s no wonder, then, that a simple cold has turned into a hideous lurgy that has left me exhausted, voiceless and far from match-fit. So yesterday I gave myself a proper day off – a day off when I didn’t even turn on the computer or check my emails. And I set off with my husband and youngset son to Morte Point, in search of seals.

It was a cloudless day, with a light breeze. We stood on the cliff tops,looking down at the caerulean water lapping the treacherous rocks. And then we saw one – a shiny black nose peeping out of the water. First one … then three … then a grand total of six. They weren’t doing anything, our seals. Just lying on their backs, being. Happy. Blissful. Contented.

And so we took a leaf out of their books, and just sat there. Being.
For half an hour. Happy. Blissful. Contented.