The Word Cloud

The cobwebs are winning. Their fragile structures prove far stronger than my will to do something about them. Apparently, my hoover pipe morphed in the night, the lightweight aluminium magically transformed into the heaviest lead. Alchemy as an excuse for being a poor housewife; you've got to admire my inventiveness.

In reality, of course, the success of the gossamer strands owes itself to nothing so spectacular. It's just fibromyalgia, my faithful friend, illustrating my life and scrawling its presence in every corner. Other people would tackle the ceiling with ease, arms stretched above their heads, utilising the special attachment supplied by Dyson for just these circumstances. Housewives and husbands up and down the land are; right now, cleaning the bottom of the oven with abandon. The smell of oven cleaner – or cigarette smoke, fish, pencils, cheese crisps and so on – does not overpower their senses as it does mine. My next door neighbour, who is 70, puts her own rubbish out every week and I once saw her shovelling snow away from her front door. I am 31 years old and I cannot manage to change my own bedding without having a little lie down halfway through.

I try ignoring the state my house is in, pretending that I don't care about the crunchy carpets and that bit behind the toilet I can't get to. I'm a writer, after all, working on a novel with plans for a series. What importance should one attach to domestic tasks when engaged in serious literary pursuits?

The novel can be written in bed, propped up on overstuffed pillows, heating set at 'full' so my poor son is sweltering while I call for another blanket and a nice hot cup of tea. I wrestle sentences into submission, push characters around, making them do what I want them to. I create worlds from my thoughts, shape destinies and make sure bad guys get their comeuppance.

Some days I am in too much pain to type so I write in my head, dreaming scenarios and solutions while under my duvet, blocking out noises and light. I read, devouring books for research and for pleasure, living multiple lives in my mind.

Today, I managed to get downstairs to make a feast of cornflakes and hot milk. Tomorrow I might be able to do all those things I wanted to do today, like going to the bank and popping into the supermarket for cheese and a loaf.

These hands don't look good in rubber gloves, they're far better suited to an ergonomic keyboard. Fingers hash marked with paper cuts shouldn't be anywhere near bottles of bleach. I balance the Yellow Pages on my lap and flick through before grabbing the phone.

'Hello, is that the Acme Domestic Cleaning Service? I'd like to book a regular appointment.'

Some people aren't cut out for cobweb fighting, I think, snuggling back under my blankets with my notebook and pen.