This is the very first summer where I have left things totally wide open. Tricked by the amazing July temperatures, I truly thought that August in England would be just as scorching, so I would not mind knocking around here. August is the month when it reaches top temperatures everywhere else in Europe, so why not here too? Now I have reluctantly accepted that England in August is just never ever going to be hot - despite the furore about global warming and incremental temperature rises.

In the last week I have ambitiously been throwing on strappy sundresses, and then cashmere polo necks. I have prayed and willed the sun to come out and the barometer to inch up. I kept impatiently tapping the wretched glass of the family's ancient barometer in the hall as I shivered and sneezed sporadically. Finally last week I gave in to jeans and furry ugg boots again, buckling to warmth, cosiness and comfort as yet another blustery drizzly day took hold.

A couple of weeks ago I decamped to my parent's house in Devon as London was empty and soulless, full of out-of-towners and tourists. Despite no one being around it was still too distracting. It was taking my mind off my main task at the moment - to write a book.

I say it just like that as if it is as easy as pie. And, by the way, it is not. But I have been banging on and on about writing a goddamn book this summer whenever anyone asks me what I am doing with myself. In fact I contrived this arduous task to distract attention from a distinct lack of foreign summer invitations. There was slight satisfaction at producing such an answer whenever asked about summer plans. I dreamily replied with an over dramatic sweep of my hand while gazing into the far distance: "I am writing … you see." It is such an LA retort, as clichéed as "I am working on my film script".

My father is distinctly unimpressed by my life plan at present. He tutted and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I want you to get a proper job and to earn some decent money," was his dismal demand. He dreads yet another winter of bailing his single daughter out of the red again.

It was a decision I made a month back. The plan was to spend the whole of August hibernating in some little Greek village writing, while gazing out, as all writers do, over the ocean, while lazy flies buzz around a light, white, studio apartment. Instead, the reality panned out as ten days at my parent's house in cold rainy Devon. It was definitely a cheaper option, with food and board pretty much free. There were few rules or regulations, apart from no smoking out of the window - which of course I broke - and, strangely this time around, a welcome for male visitors, of whom there were none.

It was quite strange to spend my summer holiday like a child back at the parents' house. Many women seem to retreat to their parents' to recuperate after divorces. But I had no particular trauma to get over - apart from that of being single, if that counts. It was comforting and secure to be in a nice house being cooked, cleaned and cared for. Naturally my mother could not miss the opportunity to highlight the fact that if I was in any way normal I would be wanting to cook, clean and care for a husband who might have a lovely house too.

Tears came to her eyes as she got ready for some dreadful rural gossipy dinner party. She blubbed: "Do you know how embarrassing it is for me to go to these events and be the only mother with an unmarried daughter … " her voice tailing off sadly. It was such a timeless comment. She was Mrs Bennet and I was Lizzie, although most of the time I felt more like Jane Austen herself, sitting on the window seat gazing out through the rain-slashed window panes.

The only difference was I had a laptop teetering on my lap. Nevertheless it is awful to see a mother so distraught about such things, especially as she added, "Maybe you will never know what I am feeling as a mother." She might be right.

My time was spent in my bedroom writing and writing and deleting and writing more. It was as if I was studying for A levels again. Sitting silently alone is not easy thing to do. I occasionally accompanied my parents to some random rural event, like the local hunt's puppy hound competition up the road. Anything for a break.

Now, returned to London with merely one chapter under my belt, I can feel this is going to be a long and hard slog. An author's life might not be quite my style. It is far too solitary, and certainly locking myself away in my bedroom day in day out is not going to help my single status at all.

Single in the city: e-mail Xanadu here

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