I’m never happier than when I’m writing, except when I can’t think of what to write. When I’m in full flow, time disappears, my anxiety melts away, aches and pains evaporate, and I forget about all that ails me. It’s a perfect mental sorbet that seems to cleanse the sensory palate.

Sometimes, words pour out like a broken tap; sometimes, they have to be teased out, like eating escargot. I love the way that just looking at the page can open pathways in the brain that lead you from snails to sorbet. Snail sorbet anyone?

I suppose some huge tombola drum is revolving in my brain, tumbling out words in a kind of random lexicon lottery, a game of internal word association.

Let’s take a random word. And by the way, did you even know there was such a thing as a random word generator? I do now. The word it came back with was furniture. So, let’s spin the drum and pull out some furniture-inspired prose.

Now, the first problem I face is that I’ve just been looking at a Facebook post from a local group. Someone’s trying to give away some old dressers, and I just can’t get that image out of my head. Nice stuff too. If it hadn’t gone, I’d have been tempted to try my hand at eBay.

Except that I wouldn’t. It would have stayed in the house until some house-clearance con artist fleeced my heirs out of it, along with all the other treasures, by passing them off as junk.

“Honestly, love, it’s all rubbish.” As they legged it to Roseberys in the perfect circle of life. Art back whence it came.

Aside from the obvious, I collect all manner of things: sunglasses, leather jackets, leather briefcases, shoes, hats, and even rubbish. Well, it didn’t start like that, but I just can’t seem to throw things away, so it’s all gradually becoming trash.

And then there are books. Paperbacks, hardbacks, first editions, signed editions, proof copies, and free copies. In the bedroom, the lounge, and the attic. Jammed in the numerous shelves. In towers. Or in piles. The full spectrum of literature; from Homer to history, to the history of Harley.

If the truth be known, I think we are only a few more tomes from some kind of seismic event where the house implodes under its own weight and Chez Blackmore is replaced by a black hole – presumably the same one down which my salary is sucked.

I even collect words and phrases.

You never know when some little idea, word or phrase will come in handy, adding that special something, a literary anchovy in the curry, the perfect umami for whatever piece you’re writing.

I used one today. A few weeks ago, while walking through Stratford (well, Westfield Stratford City, to be precise), I was struck by how ugly and modernistic it looked. Both shiny and old-fashioned at the same time. A sharp contrast to Croydon’s fabulous brutalist architecture.

Thus, the phrase “like Croydon, but without the charm” was born. It had been sitting there until today, when I used it as the payoff line to a piece about Oxford Street.

I’ve others. Two sitting in the queue, waiting for their moment in the spotlight, are Dreaded Cod, a spin on breaded, which I’m sure will come in handy at some stage, and Woke Up in a Commer.

Rather than conjuring the image of someone waking after weeks in a coma, Woke Up in a Commer paints a vivid picture in my head: the sight of someone coming around in the back of an old van. Not just any van, but a green 1950s Commer FC, Britain’s answer to the Volkswagen Bus.

I’m sure if I sat here long enough, I could get out my escargot tongs and gently extract enough words to bring the vista in my head to life. But I have a feeling, like today, the best policy is to wait until it’s ready to emerge, fully formed, as the story it wants to be.

So, until that time, you’ll just have to sit and wait.

Just like me.