Houston - Under Purple Sheets

Lying in my lounge along a huge chocolate wool carpet, I started to yawn, stretching out my aching body like a cat. My legs were beginning to get stiff, causing them to cramp due to the fact I had been lying in the same position for far too long. The rug lay on top of Canadian redwood flooring, which had some sheepskins scattered around to offset the wood, giving it a rustic feel. This is my favourite room in the house; its my own personal space, offering me a presence of being at home with nature, humbled by simpler times.

The walls are decorated in wood panelling stained in a deep red mahogany, with Indian knives hung throughout; the room is also full of taxidermied animals, creating the ambience of being in a hunting lodge. There is a log burner embedded into a huge stone fireplace, with a railway sleeper across the top to form a mantle, on which sits a stuffed fox with squirrel in its mouth. Above that owning pride of place is a huge stags head. Covering leather sofas are all kinds of animal fur cushions with wolf fur throws. On a table nearby, made with old rough railway sleepers, stands a candle, its burning wick made of wood, which makes a crackling noise that resembles the effect of a bonfire and its pumpkin scent reminds me of the delicious smell of my grandmother baking cookies.

Rolling over onto my back, trying to distribute some more of the pain, I notice on staring up at the traditional old-style wooden beams that run along the ceiling, from one of them hangs a delicate, very intricate cobweb (which wasnt there yesterday). Forcing myself up to go for my feather duster to remove it, I felt something underfoot. On looking down, there lay my notebook and pen, which Id been scribbling with for hours now. That wasnt my intention, it just happened that way instead of me doing housework which needed to be done, as the unknown spider had just established. Passing by the window, it was beginning to get dark out. Glancing over to where sat a magnificent stag ornament, there stood beside it a beautiful antique clock ticking the time, informing me that it was already four p.m. The afternoon had gone so quickly but I had been busy I suppose, so I hadnt realised just how much time had passed by.

It had got chilly, so on the fire which still smouldered, I flung some logs before lighting more candles. Wandering over to the corner of the room, I switched on the fairy lights that covered a tree sitting in a stone flowerpot; it was most unusual, built in cream bricks with large cream rocks either side of it matching the stonework on the hearth and smokestack, which altogether added more character, enhancing the primitive yet cosy atmosphere. On an old whiskey casket nearby sat a milk jug filled with wild thistles; their appearance made my place look like it belonged to or was something you would find hidden away in a log cabin amongst the Nevis mountain range.

On leaving my hillbilly hideaway, I pass through the dimly lit hallway; on heading upstairs I flick a switch to activate the heating system providing warmth to the rest of the house. On reaching my bedroom, I toss the book and pen, which lands on the bed. I feel a draft blowing in through from an open window somewhere, making the already cool air in here colder still. I go in search of it, whereupon I realise Im still wearing my vest top, a little thong under soft cotton pyjama trousers with Ugg boots. Shit! Coco, get your arse in gear!

On entering the bedroom once more, it was beginning to feel a little warmer in here now. I put on more fairy lights, which sparkle like little diamonds in the dark (I prefer the subtle lights and also enjoy the kind of magical imprint they create). Taking a fleeting look in the mirror, my long wild, knotted hair is reflected back at me so halting in my tracks, I shake my head upside down whilst running my fingers through it, thinking I should go for a coffee now. Besides, I had to arrange dinner for my Chihuahuas Versace, Rio de Janeiro and Solo Dancer, ignoring the fact that I havent spring-cleaned my kitchen, so this straw-like mess had to wait until later to be shampooed, and then deep conditioned. I was already behind with my chores as on a whim I started to write the manuscript for a book while waiting for my married man to phone me back. On leaving my bedroom I stop again, this time at my dressing table, where I lift a bottle of Coco Chanel perfume, spraying a mist of its rich fragrance onto my skin; it evokes the feeling of pure luxury whilst arousing a sexual desire within.

Just at that moment I hear a noise, which sounded like a key turning the lock on the front door, followed by footsteps coming upstairs. There, in the doorway of the bedroom stands the married man I am having an affair with. Bradford Riley Blake. Hello, darling, he smirks, looking at me, obviously wondering why Im still in bed wear (which I dont wear in bed), taking in my boots, wild hair, whilst smelling the just sprayed Chanel scent, he seems kind of amused. Walking forward he kisses me, more desire awakened by his touch. He tastes as good as I smell. What is this, Coco? he asks, holding my notebook as he sits down on edge of the bed.