There may have been times in life when we have been guilty of thinking that we have been born beneath our station.
Admittedly, there have been times though when I couldn't work out if it was St Pancras, Flinders Street or just the one harbouring Platform 9 3/4.
I have always fancied myself as some highly successful author, commanding huge readerships, all while beating back frenetic literary fans.
Undoubtedly, I would be holed up in some quaint stone cottage, in the foothills of some romantic village in Provence, hunched over some vintage typewriter banging out some classic literature.
The reality however, is far removed.
Instead, I am vaguely situated at my computer, in my suburban home office, with a child draped over of my shoulders like some possessed scarf. My swivelling office chair taking on a life of its own as the legs entwine and I am thrust from side to side.
Amazingly, all the while, I am still focused enough to keep typing away. The accuracy rates may have diminished somewhat, but all in all, a committed effort I thought.
This writing gig is a lot harder than it looks. Especially considering in this fantasy I have decided that writing a picture book entirely in verse is the way to go. Herein lies my first mistake. I am not known for my rhythm.
Not one to let obstacles get in my way...I remain undeterred.
Even with 18kgs hanging off my back...and front...and side...
Stay tuned for the swivelling chairs of literary journeys to begin.