Today I took my mum and her best friend, Vicky to to visit Agatha Christie’s holiday home, Greenway, on the banks of the river Dart.
It was overly hot and overly full and Mum struggled with the stairs, but it was stuffed with stuff, much of it collected by Agatha and her children, some by her various husbands. It was all fascinating and little fragments of Poirot or Miss Marple sprang to mind as we wandered around the various rooms gazing at objects that showed insight into Agatha Christie’s thinking- kind of like an author’s slideshow, but in 3d.
In one room, they had this:
I stared from the window, recognising exactly what she meant, and applying it to my own writing – just downstairs I had seen a typewriter and written it into a plot – I know it wasn’t Agatha Christie’s, but it might have been. The house was beautiful, the trees falling away to the river breathtaking, the distant glimmer of water stunning.
All of it was marvellous, inspirational,
She wrote so much,
So many stories, so many hours bent over that typewriter.
I really needed to be more disciplined, use every scrap of the day.
Then it occurred to me, she never had to do the washing up.