For most, the expression ‘period porn’ usually refers to a television serial set in the time of Austen or Thackeray that involves a degree of corset-ripping antics. Where the writers think that if the cast say ‘bodice’ enough times we’ll overlook the deviation from the plot of the book it was based on agree that although not explicit in the text, there probably was an orgy scene in Sense and Sensibility if you read the subtext. Besides, we’re all secretly having too much fun watching the titillating endeavours on the screen to really care.

But for me it has always referred to the features not of the beautiful people before me, but of the houses in which they reside. A declaration of undying love is all very well dear but can you move to your left, you’re blocking the inglenook.

I have a borderline fetish for period features, you see. They say the first step in any addiction is admitting it, but I’m not sure I really want to overcome this obsession. After all, I don’t think it’s really hurting anyone. I’m not so insensible as to spend all my money furnishing my own humble abode with such treasures; I just like to look at other people’s. And it’s not like I do it secretly by night or anything, if I’m on the premises it’s usually because I have permission, but the longing it entails can sometimes be quite overpowering. The sight of a truly ancient window seat or exposed beam on ‘Escape to the County’ (series record, natch) will sometimes illicit an involuntary sigh. I always reassure myself with the overused phrase ‘one day’ and I suppose theoretically it might be possible for my own small slice of rural life, but the question remains whether I would want this in the long-term. I’m too sociable a creature to live out in the sticks. I’d want to be in a village I suppose, but still with enough land for a smallholding so I could keep chickens. But chickens will lead to sheep, and sheep will lead to cows and before you know it I’m back to a small studio flat in Bognor because I couldn’t keep up the payments.

It’s all tied up in my fantasy of making a living from my writing, whilst living out the rural idyll. Collecting eggs of a morning and patting Constance the cow in the paddock (it’s a prerequisite that cows must have a matronly name, I don’t know why) before returning to my cottage garden to check on how the green beans are doing and maybe pluck some herbs for my evening salad (because I’m somehow also healthy in the country), and then sit down with a cup of tea whilst I work on my novel. Occasionally I’ll bash out a few words on the antique typewriter that resides in my extensive library just to get me in the mood, but I’ll return to my laptop in my oak-panelled study for the serious stuff as ribbons are a bitch and my cats are treading ink everywhere. It’s perhaps a sign of my depressive tendencies that even my fantasies are flawed, but that’s the only way I can ever justify it happening to me. And instead of the odd hour’s writing here and there every few days and only when I deem conditions are just right, I’d write every day in a glorious routine, achieving at least 5-10,000 words a day and all of it solid gold. The morning will be some work on a ground-breaking app, then perhaps an hour’s research for my current play, then the afternoon will be exclusively spent on my latest work of fiction. I can write in any mood, in any weather without distraction. I have the internet, but I only really use it to converse with my publisher or to answer fan mail, so it never serves as a distraction when working.

When reading through her old diaries, my mother relayed to me how as an infant breastfeeding, conditions had to be ‘perfect’ for me to feed. No distractions, I had to be settled and in the right frame of mind. How developed that mind can be at a few weeks old I don’t know, but it was clearly a central core of my character as little has changed since (except the nature of how I get my food, I’d assume that was a given but I live in Brighton and people have preconceptions so I feel clarification is justified). But I know that it’s all in my head. How can where I write feasibly affect the quality or quantity? Yes people are inspired by their surroundings, but most of what we write comes from experience and placing oneself in some cushioned cocoon is never going to produce anything of any real interest.

I used to take pride in myself as being relatively ‘low maintenance’, particularly as a romantic partner. I don’t expect expensive gifts or to be taken anywhere fancy. As long as my beaux is relatively clean and doesn’t have hair longer than mine (that’s my thing, don’t take it away from me), I don’t care if they have abs of steel, impeccable style or perfect skin. In view of my own shape, dress sense and blemishes it would be rather hypocritical if I did. But the truth is in some ways I am exceptionally high maintenance. I’ll constantly put off until tomorrow what I could do today and not just with writing, but with anything my mind or body deems even remotely taxing. I’m therefore usually in a mild state of panic as inevitably the list of things to do piles up until the house is a mass of unclean clothes and tumbleweed balls of fur in every corner. I have a mass of unfinished projects dotted about the premises: half-done paintings in dust-coated canvases leaning against one wall, a basket full of off-cuts of material I will of course put to use one day, and on every shelf a pile of reference books I intend to read as research or to improve myself, but it’s only the fiction that’s dog-eared from attention.

What I need is a personal trainer, not just for my body but for my life. One who gets me up at a sensible time each day and makes me actually achieve something, even if it’s just the ironing. I suppose that’s what some people call a husband or wife. Well, the lucky ones (or unlucky depending on your point of view). Many will find themselves in that role themselves, having to motivate another instead. And as self-appointed spokeswoman for all lazy bastards I would like to take this opportunity to apologise. If you’re one of those rare weird power couples that both motivate each other you can piss off right now, this blog’s not for you.

There are the odd rare days when I turn into a bit of a dynamo and achieve multiple things in one day, but that’s about three times a year at most. They’re great when they do happen though. I can only assume it’s how a bipolar person feels when they have a ‘high’. I tend to become quite generous with my money then too, egged on by my productivity, adopting a new carefree lifestyle that future me can worry about. So I suppose again it’s a sort of putting things off, only this time it’s delaying the concern that should accompany it. That’s no bad thing every once in a while for one as highly strung as I.

But the things is, well, now I guess I do have a sort of personal trainer. There is a person in my life who takes me running and helps me eat better and generally improve myself, but doesn’t charge me for it. And although one could argue the social time we spend together are distractions from the things I know I should be doing, it never feels like time wasted. He’s doing a fine job getting me healthier physically, but actually the best influence he gives is the faith he seemingly has in the rest of me. I’m not sure if he knows how valued this commodity is. To be told by someone that they genuinely believe your best years are ahead of you is something you can’t measure in any practical sense. And for someone who is arguably moving away from what is considered their prime, this is heartening to hear. Yes, he has his demons too, but I hope in my own small way I help him in return by providing a degree of stability and empathy he sometimes lacks elsewhere.

The faith that I will achieve my goals despite my slovenly disposition gives me hope. And when I have hope, the words start flowing. They may not all be golden, but it’s a start. And we’ve all got to start somewhere.

Monet painted his most famous work at 70. I’m hoping to at least have a first draft by then.