The phrase itself has almost become cliched, but the sentiment is a very real one. How I am trying to achieve that, in this tiny box of a house that is besieged by summer noises - the perpetual sliding screech of mini van doors as moms take their kids to swim lessons in the pool behind the house; the thumping of rap music from a boom-box on the basketball court, the tennis players who try to imitate Sharapova on the courts. And then my cats that cannot stand a closed door so meow and scratch on it incessantly, begging to be let in. And the terrible knowledge that I am not alone in the house to begin with, that I am just pretending, here behind this closed door. I think writers need to be 100% selfish and yet the guilt that comes with that is galling. So all I have achieved is a massive headache, for which I will have to retrieve Tylenol from the kitchen which lies beyond my cave. I will break the 5th wall and go out, there is no choice. Somewhere, a little cottage by an ocean beckons. Cracked tea cups in a china plate and the smell of mice-poo. I would do anything to be there!!!