Wooden slats, a hard chair, scraps of paper, thin cushions, a small desk, cold coffee cups, morning light and the sound of birds; after more than 15 years of what I believe we call economic activity, I am finally getting a room of my own. Yes, I am building a shed. Like Dylan Thomas, Roald Dahl and probably that guy with glasses off The Repair Shop, I shall henceforth be working out of the house, looking at a rosemary bush.

As a woman, I now believe that this is the only way to work from home without sinking constantly into the mire of housework. I say women, because, as pretty much every sociological report on the subject has proved, within cis-gendered, heterosexual relationships, women still do the majority of domestic labour. A foul concoction of social conditioning, an unfair labour market, pay inequality and unaffordable childcare means that it is primarily women who hang out the laundry, wipe the counter tops, clean the bath and not only notice that the floor is covered in grated cheese but then take the radical step of sweeping up the grated cheese.

While working from home is a privilege only afforded to people in a certain type of job – often non-essential, non-public-facing and computer-based – it has meant that many of us are now having our working day interrupted by the guilt-inducing sight of a full washing up bowl or a child’s pyjamas hanging from a doorknob. Not to mention the lure of the fridge or the tantalising song of the kettle.

And so, I’m heading out into the garden. I am shutting the door on crumbs, scattered toys, snacks and unmade beds, and taking dominion of my own office. Will I start to write meandering novellas about middle-class families with neurotic heroines? Will I find myself penning fulsome Welsh poetry and drinking whisky for breakfast? Will I create a children’s classic, while idly watching a magpie? I very much doubt it. But I will be facing a window, with a swept floor and nobody asking me to wipe their bum. Pure joy.