A few years ago when my daughter was about to leave school, I moved into town. I had a plan. Molly was going to go to college and I was going to travel more and write as I went. I was in my late 30s, divorced and had just moved into a small two-bedroom flat in the city centre – the kind of flat upon which you can safely slam the door and head off into the sunset. New York, Paris, Istanbul. It was all ahead of me - a well laid plan.
Within a couple of months however I inadvertently met my second husband, my daughter, who had rented a place in Glasgow, where she went to study came home again and that footloose, fancy free novelist who was going to go wherever her heart dictated was back in the box. The box was too small – we later built an extension.