You should be so lucky.
A nice little villa next to a white sand beach with a few coconut palms dotted here and there and a hammock slung between two of them, a liberal supply of fresh fish and malvasía, and a snug little library with a big leather armchair, stocked with all the great works of literature I haven’t got around to reading yet. And a front stoop so I could sit with my laptop like Ernest Hemingway with his typewriter and actually get on with writing my travel books.
And Felicity Jones.
Ho-hum. Why do I get the idea I won’t be giving up my watches any time soon?