Deep among the poppies, I seek my inspiration. Sunshine effuses opium, ideas dart like swallows. Typewriter loaded, often idle - writer's block, I tell my husband Tom. He says the lockdown has derailed me, and he's right. Cutting through the flowers, he comes: muscular, purposeful. Married. Not called Tom. Heart beating, dropping to my knees. Nylon snapping, the firm thrust, heat exploding through red petals. Pushing back...