This was the week I was going to start writing my first novel.

I had it all planned. With three days off work and a bit of extra childcare help from my husband, I anticipated getting at least the synopsis sorted out, if not the first chapter as well.

So what happened?

On Monday I switched on my computer with the intention of getting a few thoughts down on the screen, hopefully with some characters and a plot Unfortunately, I was distracted by the tales of Derek the Decorator, who was painting the front of our house as part of the general tart-it-up-to sell project. Derek was telling me that he'd just been decorating a haunted house.

"Wouldn't work in there on me own," he said. "We used to hear all sorts of strange, unnatural noises. Unexplained bangs and crashes. One time I heard someone walking on the floorboards above. I thought it was my work mate Big Hector. But he was outside. Talk about spooky."

Derek got me thinking. Maybe I should write a ghost story? I went to the gym to mull over the idea, but became too engrossed in the complicated instructions on the exercise bike to get any further. Result: Nothing written. Had a nightmare about ghosts.

On Tuesday I switched on my computer while my husband took our three-year-old to the park.

I looked longingly out the window at our sun-drenched garden. Then I decided to take a break and sit outside for a minute or two. I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I heard was our daughter clattering up the garden steps shouting, "Mummy, mummy, we saw Callum and his bike's blue."

Could this be the beginning of a plot? Perhaps I'll save it for my children's series. Result: Inspired, but nothing written.

On Wednesday I cleaned the windows, had a hair cut, argued with my husband, flicked through Property News, arranged various social engagements for the Bank Holiday weekend and spent rather too long in the bath reading the fourth Harry Potter book. Result: Too late to switch on the computer. Nothing written.

On Thursday my husband had the day off and we went out for lunch. He told me how much he hoped I would get my novel off the ground.

"I don't have a story yet," I said miserably.

"I'm not sure you need one," he said encouragingly. "Just write about what you know or who you know."

We then went to Homebase to buy bricks for an unfinished garden project and didn't realise we had bought the wrong size until we had piled them up in our back garden. Result: Very bad mood all round. Nothing written.

On Friday I accepted that I was no closer to realising my ambition to be a novelist than I had been on Monday. So I went shopping.

By the afternoon my creative energy had returned and I wrote the first line of my novel: "Callum, the naughty ghost, had a blue bike."

I then developed writer's block. Just my luck.