For the past week I’ve woken up every night in a cold sweat. It’s not the thought of bills, chores or work that wake me… it’s my novel.
This wasn’t death-by-selfie which is totally a thing now, but death-near-selfie which is considerably more pedestrian and that’s really saying something.
No matter how fluffy the bathrobe or late the check-out the one drawcard that never fails to entice the final digit of my CVC is a hotel with books.
I have a friend who is a psychologist. I have yet to see a person meet her and not worriedly suggest that she has been analysing them. Little do they know that this couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s not my friend who’s watching them. It’s me.