![]() Unable to sleep, despite feeling utterly exhausted. Come Sunday night I would fall into bed around 1.30 am, checking the alarm was set for 5am. The tedious food shops and wretched Sunday roasts. ![]() For years I contended with an unremitting slog of sixty-hour working weeks, unending housework, ballet and school runs, frenetic weekends spent driving kids around, desperately trying to keep up with all the washing, ironing and gardening. But what about having that elusive commodity, the time in which to write? Full-time work, study and raising five children, mostly by myself, had not afforded me such a luxury. “We will not live to settle for less, we have dreamed of this all our lives.” Adrienne Rich, “Phantasia for Elizabeth Sharpova”Ī room of one’s own, apparently so essential if you want to write. ![]()
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