Cold

In the winter, the door would sometimes freeze shut. The caravan's shower stopped working which meant I walk to the shower block each morning regardless of the weather. These were not the worst conditions a human had ever had to endure but nor where they what I had planned for middle-age.

At weekends I went home to be with my little family but my weeks were often grim.

I was writing at least a thousand words a day - often much more - and that equated to several books a year. But, if no one buys the books then what is the point? Writing was never a hobby for me. Rather it was just an extremely badly paid job.

One morning I woke in the caravan and discovered that my work shoes were full of Maltesers. On a normal day, they were not full of anything, so this seemed odd. Now, I had bought a couple of boxes of Maltesers as stocking fillers for Christmas but that didn't explain how they had ended up in my shoes. On closer inspection I found that my shoes had been chewed. Then I noticed that my flying jacket had likewise been chewed and my briefcase.

The caravan - my little aluminium bungalow on wheels - had a new set of inhabitants - mice.

It could have been worse. Rats or... gazelles would have been more devastating but it spelt the beginning of the end.