A course I was due to teach last week was cancelled at the last minute and I was left with an empty day in my diary. Before I could fill it with something terribly productive, such as pretending to write my novel, or making a vague attempt to cull the ironing pile, I had a call from one of the students. Could she come to my house and do the course anyway?
Come to my house?
Like the men who spend hours browsing through Autotrader, I like to flick through the last few pages of women’s magazines, where writing retreats and art courses are advertised in abundance. ‘Soak up the atmosphere in Bunty’s farmhouse kitchen,’ they proclaim, and ‘find a quiet corner to paint, in the grounds of Maxine’s lovely family home.’
Tutors who run courses from their homes usually have houses like this:
