Keeping Your Eye On The Ball

I have been trying to kick-start a book-writing project for some time now and, since popular wisdom prescribes solitary confinement for such a task, I have taken up my relative's generous offer of residence in his apartment while he is away for a couple of weeks. Now, as I pack my bag to return home, I can evaluate what I have managed to achieve.

I shall be sorry to leave this temporary refuge, a comfortable, spacious pad overlooking the river Thames at Wapping, but perhaps it hasn't been as conducive to creativity as I had hoped. The busy river is a killer distraction for a writer whose ability to concentrate for more than half an hour without a break is already in question. The window onto the watery world has tempted me too often to 'stretch my legs', leaving the keyboard for the kettle or (according to the time of day) the bottle.

At first, the sound of a foghorn or an especially powerful wake lapping the river bank would have me curious to see what was passing and, although the novelty of the moving tableau did wear off, it was always a temptation. I may have become accustomed to the wafting sounds of the tour-boat commentaries, the waxing and waning disco beats from the numerous party boats and the smack and thump of speedboats full of squealing passengers but, one Saturday morning, the sound of cheering voices drove me once more to the window.

I watched as hundreds of rowing boats, of all shapes and sizes, passed by in a riverine equivalent of a fun-run. Some of the rigs in the vanguard looked like serious contenders - sleek craft full of Lycra-clad muscle-men with determined expressions. But the ones which followed looked less serious, reflecting perhaps their modest expectations of winning. I was impressed by the imaginative branding of many of these teams, from the crew who wore identical chicken-head helmets, to the louche Battle-of-Britain pilots dressed in bits of RAF uniform, as if they hadn't enough to go around. There was a big, heavy boat manned by a dozen monks dressed in brown habits and, bobbing in its wake, a flimsy craft womanned by half a dozen ladies dressed in dayglo tutus and flying the flag of the Sugar Plum Fairies. The procession was followed up by a large vessel crammed with supporters and a brass band playing Michael Jackson's Beat It. As a land lubber I was amazed by the sight of so many people having so much fun in boats – and without life-vests.

But I needed to get down to serious work on my project and there was another distraction: I had offered, as part of a reciprocal arrangement, to help out for a day on my friend's project - painting the external facade of his three-story Victorian pub. The job required climbing scaffolding and embracing a machismo disdain for PPE (personal protection equipment): which was all very well until the bloke working on the level above me twice dropped objects (accidentally) onto my head. Not to worry though: the first was just a balled-up rubber glove and the second was merely the blade of a Stanley knife (minus its heavy handle). In future I will wear a hard hat whenever there is a bloke working above me. And, if I ever get to fun-row, I shall be wearing a life vest over my monk's habit.

Meanwhile, back at the writing desk, there is much to do and I see that my 'Quote of the Day' calendar has Balzac telling me "It is as easy to dream a book as it is hard to write one". I know.