Sometimes when I sit in my studio in my small cottage by the sea I wonder at how far my books travel. There are dragon books in Denmark, France, Sweden, Spain and America.
And still a small dragon tugs at my thoughts, pulls at my hair. He wants his book now, his story.
It is quiet. Dark outside and cold. Inside the house is warmed by the wood fire. I am painting a fox and my hands smell of wood smoke.
I have had the chair where I sit to work for almost 30 years now. Before it became mine it was the barber's chair in Broadway in the Cotswolds. It has traveled with me, from the corner of a bedroom to the corner of a sitting room in Bath. It has been in a caravan in the garden that would rock when the wind blew, so much that I couldn't paint. And then it has moved around the house. Over the years the paint has rubbed off the arms and they have become smoothed and polished by touch.
Today I took delivery of a new chair. Not one to paint in, but one to sit and think and read in.