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A Magazine Article for creative writing

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George Bernard Shaw once said that 'A perpetual holiday is a good working definition of hell'. I'm here to analyse whether this is true. He could have meant that a holiday from work or school forever would be hell but I like to think and therefore I'm testing out the theory of actually moving to a place that was once your favourite holiday destination. Will that place still hold all the carefree, luxurious magic that it does when you escape there for a few weeks of rest and relaxation, or will paying tax and contributing to the debate about what time the village lights should be turned off kill that magic for you? My favourite holiday destination was always Roquecor in the south of France. A tiny hilltop village near Toulouse, far from the coast and in the rural mainland. I have been visiting since I was a little girl and to me it always represented peace and happiness. ...read more.


He has decided to come indefinitely, quite possibly for good if the dream lives up to all that is anticipated. He was won over by the lure of cheap wine, French bread and better weather. As an aficionado of the French language and a trained teacher, he has managed to wangle his was into being the English teacher at the local primary school. My job as a journalist is highly mobile and I will continue to pursue with this career and also start work on my novel. On the way to the airport I think about all the things that I'll miss and the things I won't; fresh milk, re-runs of The Vicar of Dibley and Blackadder, and London yobs (which obviously falls into the latter category). Then suddenly I realise, and it shocks me that I haven't thought of it before. Not only am I emigrating abroad but I'm swapping a vibrant city for a remote village. ...read more.


You are on the top of a cliff with nothing but countryside and fields full of bright yellow sunflowers. We unpack and decorate the property with our personal touches, all we can do seeing as it is ready furnished. A celebratory gin and tonic is rapidly concocted from the supplies in the larder and we head out to the terrace at the front of the house. Beautiful, sun kissed French children hurriedly skip up the hill talking excitedly of their fathers boar hunting trip. They abruptedly stop when they see our pale inquisitive faces, whisper to each other for a moment and then give us broad grins and a chorus of 'Salut!' rings around us. I grin back at them, then grin at Adam and realise that I have grinned like this for a long time. Will I continue grinning like this? Only time will tell and so for now I'm going to go and enjoy, as they say, the first day of the rest of my life. ...read more.

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