It was two years ago, around eleven in the morning on a Thursday. I was in our bedroom where, more often than not, I tuck in to write.
Most of my nine books and over 1,000 columns have been written while propped in bed – mainly because I start while still in my night clothes – but others have been written from a back porch rocker.
Tink walked in, his laptop in-hand and open.
His face was ashen covere…
