Back to being a milkman.

One Christmas, when I was young, I dreamt of unwrapping a Millennium Falcon. Instead I received a hand-held bottled milk carrier. I recall it was scarlet in colour.

On Christmas day, I walked up and down the garage struggling to manage the weight of six bottles of milk. I was practising.

From the age of six to seventeen, I would get up at the crack of dawn and help my dad with his milk round until - thank goodness -he saw the light and sold it.

This experience taught me several things:

The reason I probably didn’t get many girlfriends growing up because I smelled of milk. (I was occasionally dropped off at the school gates in my milk clothes.)

Winter mornings in North Yorkshire are bitterly cold and your fingers would literally freeze to the gunge left inside the rim of the bottles.

The morning is my most productive time.

And so for now, I’m going old school and getting up early for my milk (and honey) round. Writing commences at 5am and finishes at 6am. My ‘other’ profession sucks 60 - 65 hours out of me every single week without fail. Evening writing is out of the question.

After 8 weeks of writing a paltry 1000 words, I’m now applying my father’s work ethic in a bid to ‘deliver a fresh’ Shelly Clover novel to you next summer.

Nicky Morgan - You will not beat my dream out of me.

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