Sea Anemones​​​​​​​ Pavarotti & Mousstaka

It’s an awful thing to admit, but I don’t want my sister and her family to stay here this year...

- Rachel Lovell

I have a little house on the outskirts of a village that sits on a wide shingle beach on the East Coast. It is just a two-up, two down

terraced cottage, but the plot is long and it’s just a short walk from here, down the lane past the shops and the fancy hotels, to the sea. There’s a tiny room in the loft which I use as a studio and a lean-to at the back, where I can grow a few herbs. For me the house represented a fresh start after Alan left. And it’s all me, from the gingham-curtained window frames, holding my collections of shells and driftwood, to the carefully painted wooden furniture. It’s my sanctuary.

Which is why, this year, I am thinking of staying put during the holidays. Normally, I go on one of those arranged coach trips to the Highlands, the Lake District or to interesting towns like York or Bath. I enjoy sitting in state in my seat and being transported, without any effort on my part, around the delights of the UK. And I’ve made friends on these jaunts, too, people I keep in touch with and visit occasionally, even now.

No, the trips themselves are fabulous. The problem, though, is that while I’m away, my sister and her family come to stay. And though it’s an awful thing to admit, this year I’d just rather they didn’t.