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It was January. I was living in a tiny flat in central London. I was also trying to write a book. The weather was dismal, the manuscript was overdue and I was stuck. Badly stuck. And I hadn’t a clue how to become unstuck. Worst of all, the lease on my flat had run out and I was going to have to move. The thought of trailing around London in the drizzle to look for another shoebox to rent was more than I could bear.

Then I discovered something. I discovered it was cheaper to live in a hotel in…

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