She’s standing next to me, leaning on the arm of my chair, one arm wrapped around my neck, her hot breath on my cheek.
‘Always writing!’ she cries. ‘writing, writing!’
‘What would you like to me to do instead?’ I ask, knowing already that I’m going to do whatever she asks me to do (within reason!) because she’s right. I am always writing and it is a solitary occupation, although I have almost perfected the art of making appreciative noises or noncommittal replies while still tapping at my keyboard.
‘Disco!’ she cries.
So we go upstairs, shut the door to her bedroom, turn on the glowing jellyfish lamp and the tiny little Christmas tree light that slowly changes colour, select our first song and begin to dance.
For almost half an hour we dance wildly, sometimes together and sometimes apart, sometimes with favoured stuffed animals in our hands, their heads and limbs flying up and down with each movement. The cat lingers out in the hallway, not daring to scratch at the door, and anyone walking up the path next to our house must wonder what is going on.
Soon enough there’s a tap at the door and it’s her father, talking of teeth and bed and we tell him to wait until the end of this next song, and then we are done.
I kiss her good night and go back downstairs, the cat following at my heels, and sit back down at my computer and begin to write, again.