Administering the correct caffeine dosage to assuage the demands of my day has become something of an exact science, these past few weeks. The high levels of concentration required for novel writing can be achieved by living alone in a sort of feverish spinster’s paradise (cats, austere biscuits, ancient dressing gowns, stoicism and alcohol), but to achieve it amidst the loud claims of family life takes a certain ruthless drive. And coffee. Yet as I have no desire to aggravate my low level anxiety problem, it’s a question of balance, of ebb and flo. I begin at six with a camomile tea, progress to a decaffeinated earl grey, hit the full strength earl grey by nine, down a cappuccino and a half at ten, do three intricate hours of plotting and scheming in the blink of an eye then it’s Tension Tamer or Tranquility tea for me - and editing - until four when I like a cup of Barry’s or Yorkshire Gold and then it’s back on the herbal routine until bedtime or cocktails, whatever comes first. I rarely drink water. When I was a child my mother told us water made you fat.

Yet this week I did something that disrupted entirely my hard won battle to control my concentration situation : I bought an oil painting at an auction, down the telephone. The painting in question was a fine if slightly wonky eighteenth century hunting scene by an artist named Sartorius. I liked it well enough; but I bought it because until recently it had hung in my husband’s family home whose contents were the highlight of a recent out-of-town sale. For a while, when it was still insitu, I had genuinely considered stealing this picture. I had no doubts that it really belonged in our own house. It was all very ‘Spoils of Poynton.’ I psyched myself up to it, ‘remembering’ my late father-in-law’s kind promise that it was to be mine. I found an ancient faded linen sack and some bubble wrap. I even imagined myself dressed in a dancer’s close-fitting black practise clothes as I lifted the work from the wall. I rehearsed what I would say when the nice gentleman from Scotland Yard paid me a visit. Surely no jury in the land would convict me, and even if they did wouldn't it be interesting to see if any of the forty or so people I have visited in prison during the last twelve years, would kindly return the compliment?

While the crisp woman from Bonhams explained the procedure to me over the telephone, with the sound of earlier lots being snapped up in the background, my heart was racing at such a pace that not only was I sweating profusely, I couldn't quite see properly as a nervous watery film hovered before my eyes. It was as though I had consumed a week’s caffeine rations at one sitting. ‘I wont invite you to bid until all the bids on the floor have stopped,’ she informed me. This seemed grossly unfair, as though she was saying I could bid a lot but not a little, yet grudgingly I did see it made sense. The picture before the Sartorius did not even reach its lower estimate so things were looking good as my lot began, but from the beginning there was a lot of interest in the painting. I imagined the room crammed with my rivals: bilious local antique dealers with whiskers and stained sheepskin coats; pink-faced matrons of the parish with quilted jackets over flowery dresses and sherry dampened nerves . Before I knew it the painting had exceeded my upper limit but my head was throbbing hysterically. I couldn't bear to go through such high drama and end up with nothing. ‘D’you want to bid?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘D’you want to bid?’ ‘Yes’. It was a mesmerising dialogue that lasted about a minute. I wasnt quite sure what to wish for - success or failure seemed equally alarming - but I stayed in the bidding, ensuring I had the last word, whereupon I was mildly congratulated. I replaced the telephone receiver and with a shaky hand picked up my pen; such were my adrenaline levels that I proceeded to write three and a half thousand words of my new book in one go. It was all good, too. Only now I find that a simple cup of coffee just cannot compete with this sort of outside stimulation. I’m going to have to think about adding an extra shot.