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Most days of my life begin with a cocker spaniel leaping onto the bed, lying flat on my chest and requesting a walk. It's possibly the most snuggly alarm clock on the market, albeit one with the stinkiest breath - but tripe will have that effect.
Once dressed and fed, man and dog take to the countryside of Surrey. Walking the canal towpaths in the company of breakfast stalking heron and the wide-eyed, and overly suspicious deer; or we head to the golf course, where I throw a frisbee as far as my creaking bones will allow.
The morning walk refreshes the mind and, returning home, I take the 16 stepping stone commute to my garden studio, ideally there should be 17 stones so my final step is in the mud, which I squelch through my carpet. In the summer months I'll throw open the windows and doors, if it's winter I'll slide across the floor on my belly to fire up the fan heater as quickly as is humanly possible.
Now we're in the studio you might expect to view a photograph of an interesting and inspirational artistic workspace. Sadly my walls are constructed from the least adhesive material you're ever likely to find - a roll of duct tape won't hold a postcard to the wall when faced with the tremors caused by a sparrow landing on the roof.
So here is my functional space. The wardrobe (that came with the house) cunningly doubles as a bookcase and has a conveniently placed mirror, for the illustrator to contort his face into that of a bear bothered by a fly, or a stomping troll.
