November

It's November, which only means one thing: it's National Novel Writing Month. These past few months have seen me move back across the channel to my much-beloved France. My current humble abode is a beautiful farmhouse nestled in the heart of the Limousin. During the intensely hot Indian summer, I revelled in divine solitude, read books for pleasure (a novelty, indeed), foraged in hedgerows, made chutneys and jams and contemplated the wonders of being entirely removed from the oppressive society I once inhabited. You may wonder what precisely is wrong with me. I'm not entirely sure, myself, but I am certain of one thing: I had to escape.

I know that the pressures of my final year at university pretty much drained my soul of any joy I'd ever had. It was a horrible year; one I will never repeat, and prefer not to think of. Embarking on my new life in France has restored me to my old wonderful self. I am no longer trapped by microcosmic university life, or arbitrary standards of living which demand a certain type of behaviour. Living alone is vastly underrated by the vast majority of people. I'm not bothered if I don't wash up one evening, or if I decide to blast music through the house, or sleep 'til noon.

No, instead, I choose a frenzy of writing. My target: 50000 words by the end of this month. I wonder if I'll succeed.