We’re four days into our writing ‘retreat’, and there is no sign of our surrender! I’ve managed a word count thus far of over 13,000 in four days, and we’ve still managed to partake of a the traditional Cornish cream tea, and other activities I don’t share ūüėČ

It didn’t start so well. The tiny little road to our holiday home was closed for repairs, and our illustrious (and now sacked) C-3PO SatNav took us an alternate route. The alternate route turned out to be gated and padlocked, and it was impossible to turn around. We tried to reverse back up the ridiculously¬†steep hill, but Tabitha (the car) began to smoke and smell like she was about to catch fire, so we tried to turn around. Believe me, we tried. For thirty minutes. And we ended up like Austin Powers in the tunnel. There was nowhere to go. The guy whose house we were outside, finally sauntered over to us to assist (after admitting he’d been watching from the window for a while…and no doubt, taking video of it which you may shortly be able to find on YouTube, perhaps under some derogatory title about female drivers). I’d decided a hacksaw was the way forward, but he claimed not to have one. Now, I’m not one for stereotyping, but what self-respecting guy doesn’t have a hacksaw, either in his house or in his work van?

To shorten the tale, his tiny little 1.3 Suzuki van assisted a little, pulling Tabitha back up the hill, and my clutch was almost entirely burnt out from the experience. I’m picking her up tomorrow from the garage who I asked to call me if they thought the repair was uneconomical. Tabitha, reliable as she is, is only worth around ¬£200, so I was thinking that I’d spend a max of ¬£300 to get her back on the road. If it was more than that, I’d have her towed home, and we’d get a hire car to drive back. I have a lovely guy who’d fix her up for the price I was willing to pay, because I guessed the part itself was about ¬£150.

Back to the garage, a certain M Clark Motors in Looe, Cornwall. What’s the damage? ¬£630. On what planet is that an economical repair, when the exhaust and brakes are about to go too? Now I’m stuck. We have to pay it because there’s no real way to prove it that I didn’t authorise the work. But I wasn’t impressed. Or happy about it. In fact, I was outraged that a tiny little garage can hold holiday-makers to ransom, charge whatever the hell they like, and get away with it.

But I digress, as you’ll find I often do if you continue to follow me. The purpose of this retreat was to hit 3,000 words a day, and we’ve both managed to smash that thus far. We were sitting in a lovely little cafe called Miss Marple’s, enjoying our Cornish cream tea, reflecting on where we were when we here last year, munching on the same delicacy. We were just two writers, my Lady a multi-published short story author but not a novelist. And today, just under a year later? Both multi-contracted authors, and both working on our second novel.

So my car is f**ed, and the local garage is run by crooks. Am I giving a shit? No, because not only have I achieved my lifelong dream of becoming an author, but my Lady has also done the same.

That’s worth more to me than any amount of money.