As the windscreen wipers cut back and forth, and my house disappeared in the rear-view mirror, I wondered if I was going to cry. I tried reminding myself that I was on my way to do something lovely: I’d booked a three-night stay at a hotel in Devon to work on my novel: my first ever solo writing retreat.
I was driving away from a world of chaos, leaving my seven-year-old weeping at the front door, my nine-year-old worrying about a science project, my mother-in-law unexpectedly in hospital, and my husband juggling it all.
