When you don’t have a week (or even a day) to rest.

"Mummy is poorly, darling," I say, swooning on to the chaise longue* with the back of my hand to my feverish forehead like a 1920s film star in need of her smelling salts (or drugs, any drugs, please). "Ok," Freya says, pausing for about a second before she asks: "Are you all better now?" My … Continue reading When you don’t have a week (or even a day) to rest.