An exuberant and well planned start to the day saw a 6:30 coffee and toast, a booted computer and not a child in sight. Thrilled at the prospect of a peaceful hour, just me and the self fulfilling clickety click of the keyboard. Two words, yes two whole words later and I’m of back up the stairs to my first child, or last, whichever point of view you take, I suppose after the doctor’s severe and quite frankly painful intervention, my last.

                Anyway the squawking and blubbing meant feed time, cereal, milk, one nappy and half an hour later I return to my cold leather throne, just to press save and return to child two, three and four, who’d obviously felt left out and wanted my unreserved attention. Unflustered and unfazed, stage two of nappies and breakfast commenced and by 8.30 I was finished and out through the door to my first and only class of the day. A pleasant and relaxing change of environment, not to mention smell, for the better.

                11.00; and my return to the fold is welcomed by a well worn and suspiciously hanging nappy  and, as luck would have it, I’d returned home at the perfect moment to change my two years olds expulsions. What do we feed that boy?

                Now time to sit and check my e-mails, Hold on I need the toilet, too late, daughter number two is calling and son number three is up to something. Now the phrases, ‘Take the cushion off your sisters face’ and ‘don’t stand on your sister’ might sound alarming, but, honestly, he was only playing.

                Time for lunch, poo, I need to go shopping, thirty minutes and over  thirty degree’s  see me sweating like a, well hot thing, in an oven.  I really do need the toilet.

                Alarmed at the food on the floor, I sometimes wonder how much actually arrives in their stomachs, judging by the amount that arrives at the other end, some must go in. It does seem that more comes out, how is that possible? My wife struggle to separate the runny nose from the fruit being introduced and I desperately try to pick up the Macaroons off the floor before son number  two tries to eat them, he’s much better at eating food off the floor, than his plate, but I try not to encourage this, health and safety being what it is. Toilet!

                3:00 Two boys sleeping, two girls not, a top up bottle, change of nappy and a half hour walk see’s all four sleeping. A dash up to the toilet and all anguish and desperation floods away and relaxation sweeps over me, followed quickly by squawking from the garage and the process begins.

                What about writing? Yes, well, perhaps tomorrow, at least I got to go to the toilet. ;)

If you’re reading this then perhaps you have some idea that I’m a writer, or perhaps you don’t, or you may have read some of my books and decided that I'm definatelly not a writer.

So why do I call myself a writer?

Today, I’ve changed seven nappies, does that make me a writer? No, maybe not.

I’ve given four hours of classes and that didn’t help my writing, I’ve fed four kids, talked to two and girgled with another two. No writing involved in this.

I’ve taken two to the boys to the pool and two girls to the hospital, still no sign of any writing.

I’ve huffed and puffed over a documentary about my beloved homeland; the Valley’s of South Wales and got sun burnt. No writing involved.

I’ve drunk five coffees, now that sounds more like a writer; I’ve read a few hundred pages of a great book, now this is training my mind, but no writing.

So why am I a writer? Well, all day I’ve dreamt of scenes and endings, of characters and plots, of Celts and gods. I am a writer, because I live it, dream it and eventually my passion end up on paper.

I may be a product of the unbearably sad valleys but I’m alive and I write and live in hope that someday people will read my work.

The books are out there, once in a while someone tells me they like them, I fly and feed on each good word, I suck the life from good reviews and get stronger, the bad one are my garlic, but they are few and far between.

I’m a writing, loving, Valley’s dad and proud, oh so very proud of where I’m from, let no man (except me) run my town down.

www.jeremypoole.net