Think of it. You take yourself off somewhere lovely for a weekend in which all you have to do is write. A generous host provides food, wine, tea, biscuits, sympathetic company. Writers’ retreats always sound amazing, and there was yet another fabulous sounding weekend being dangled in front of my nose on Twitter, and there was me still not being a writer. Damn writers, all they have to do is sweat heart’s blood and tears until they have crafted something that, if they are incredibly lucky, will get published, and if they are truly the child of the gods, will earn them a minimal living. They have all the fun.
So I suggested that someone should offer a reading retreat, and it turns out that they already do. Therefore have I booked myself on it, and therefore shall I head off to Sussex in June to sleep in a bell tent, be plied with food and wine, possibly go horse-riding or have a massage, and in between read, read, read.
Blessed as I am with a relative degree of independence, disposable income and no children, I could, of course, do most of that any weekend, without paying extra for the privilege. But I don’t, because life gets in the way and even on my laziest weekends, I still have to get off the sofa and put the kettle on (feebly raises back of hand to pallid brow in ‘woe is me’ gesture). The idea of a weekend when all I’m supposed to be doing is reading and the boring stuff happens by magic (aka other people’s effort) is pure decadence. Hurrah!