"Is this it? Is this what you've made of yourself, boy? The stitches, the sleepless nights, the countless sacrifices, for this!" I take her for walks but try to avoid eye contact.
The dog is a distraction when I'm working, but not as much as this window (2). All serious writers set themselves in front of featureless grey walls - all the better to concentrate on the blank piece of paper confronting them. I suffer from ADHD but, unfortunately, without the hyperactivity part, and this constantly changing tableau just exacerbates the problem. If I had curtains instead of these elegant Georgian shutters, I would twitch them.
The desk lamp (3) is part of a collection of lovely objets d'art deco given to me the first time I left Publicis. There's a '57 Wurlitzer jukebox downstairs too. I would love to leave Publicis for a third time but that would necessitate me having to join them.
This is an Arsenal mug (4) and, this season, I'm beginning to feel like one. We've been season-ticket holders since the George Graham days and have bathed in Arsene Wenger's Champagne football for 15 years. Now it tastes a bit vinegary, but we'll just have to suck it up.
As I told my 12-year-old son, who has known nothing but success, this is how most football fans feel.
This Filofax (5) is a comfort blanket. It's as 80s as Spandau Ballet and shoulder pads, but I can't let go. Every single fact, photo and diary appointment contained therein is also in the iPhone next to it, but there's something tactile about this thing that reassures me I have a vestige of control over my life.
The iPhone (6) is the "ol' skool" curvy one but with a huge memory for lots of music. I was slightly taken aback by the outpouring of grief over Steve Jobs' death but I'm very happy to remain in his walled garden and live by his mantra: "Stay hungry, stay foolish." Although, obviously, I haven't taken the "stay hungry" part very seriously.
This picture of me and my late wife (7) is on a photo Rolodex that I flip every day. I'm aware that there's a fine line between a memento and a shrine, and sometimes I feel I cross it. Part of the collateral damage of losing somebody so young is they never age and you do.
These scribbles (8) will eventually be a Campaign Private View. Like a school essay, I work from inky longhand notes and envy those guys who can just sit down at the Mac and let it flow. The PV columns are polarising, I guess. I once interviewed a famous team who were embarrassed to show their mothers my rave review. I honestly believe that advertising creativity only has one true, vengeful god and that's the market. Whatever I have to say is irrelevant, so I might as well try to make it amusing.
These Alain Mikli glasses (9) are roughly the price of a small family hatchback and I have lost several pairs, hence the string. They make me look like a camp antique dealer.
Oh! What's this lying casually on the piano stool? Can it be At Last by Edward St Aubyn (10)? This is the culmination of his semi-autobiographical saga of abusive childhood, drugs, love, loss, therapy and redemption. It's also very funny and beautifully written. When young creatives ask me how they can write better, I say read more.
I love and collect black-and-white photographs. Among the Norman Parkinsons, Carlos Clarkes and Richard Braines are scattered my own paltry efforts. If you have a good printer, black and white can be quite forgiving and there's just enough real talent on these walls to elevate my own humble "adventures in light" to a higher level. The frame of four portraits contains my children: Louis, 12, Esme, 17, Dominic, 31, a writer at Lean Mean Fighting Machine, and Oliver, 33, the owner of Black Butter Records (11).
There's an iMac just out of shot to the right. As in most homes, this screen has replaced the television as the focal point of family entertainment. It has also meant that what started as a refuge, an oasis of calm, considered creativity has become a war zone. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Gerry Moira is the chairman and director of creativity at Euro RSCG London.