’ve barely slept; my four-year-old was awake coughing for most of the night. Our boiler has decided to pack up on this chilly autumn morning. And I have writing deadlines to meet, where I feel out of my depth. My mind flashes back to the previous weekend, spent alone with my husband in a timber cabin in Kent woodland; a Saturday afternoon lying on the sofa, warmed by the flames of a log burner. I’d read a novel, then drifted off into a nap. If only I were back there, I think as, shivering, I boil kettles of water for a wash. Yet, while a part of me would love to escape, my brain is also whirring with ideas for my articles, and I’m scribbling them down with one hand while
