I have a dream. Of course I do. In my dream I'm a writer, making enough money to get my stuff published: a neat little row of matching volumes side by side on my bookshelf, all with my name on, of course; and a modest little income and sales figures to match. My blog has a readership of thousands and 392 people regularly follow it. I only want enough to bolster my self-image and make it all worth the effort. That's all I need, isn't it?
I bake too, of course - who doesn't these days? In my farmhouse kitchen (the social hub of the house) I turn out pies and pastries, rustic-looking loaves of granary bread, mouth-watering date flapjacks, gingerbreads and brownies, neatly packaged and carefully labelled and, of course, sold - like hot cakes. The house is daily filled with the tantalising aroma of freshly baked bread and the order book is full.
There's a garden in my dream. It is stocked with fragrant sweet peas, delphiniums and roses. Honeysuckle and clematis climb the old apple tree and the herbs cluster around the garden door. No substitute for a profusion of fresh herbs. It is a country garden, a cottage garden. This has been part of the dream for years now. I am happy and content in my garden. I till the earth, hoe the weeds meticulously, harvest the vegetables, pick the golden apples from the tree and settle down contentedly beneath it to pen my thoughts and meditate in the sunshine.