English 
German 
I was at a writing retreat at the end of October and the following story, which is based on facts, was written there. On the last evening we all sat together by candlelight and read out our short stories and I'm now sharing the following one with you:
Dear friends,
I'm currently on a writing retreat in North Wales, in a beautiful old house built sometime around the 1870s - a time when people were apparently both smaller and much slimmer. My room is charming in that Victorian-ghost-meets-Aga-Cooker kind of way: creaky floorboards, high mullioned windows and a bed that probably has its own ancestral lineage.
The only problem? The door to my own little bathroom.
It's a kind of Hobbit portal - but clearly designed for the lean, wiry sort of Victorians who lived on tea and moral restraint. I, on the other hand, am neither wiry nor reserved. At 1.83 m tall and of solid build, I have to approach this door with the precision of a lorry manoeuvring backwards into a particularly awkward parking space.
Nevertheless, I managed it. Until Wendy started feeding us.
Wendy is our hostess, cook and, I am increasingly convinced, a benevolent food witch. Since our arrival, she has made it her mission to ensure that no participant leaves this retreat hungry - or still fitting through Victorian doorways.
Every day starts with a breakfast that could easily feed a Welsh rugby team. Then comes a mid-morning snack - a simple biscuit and a cup of coffee, which sounds harmless. But then comes lunch: a glorious parade of soups and salads that could easily pass for a medieval feast.
In the afternoon, the resistance begins to crumble - because then the cupcake appears. Not just any cupcake, mind you, but a work of art. Yesterday's was Halloween-themed: a swirl of orange icing topped with a tiny chocolate bat, so delicious it was almost sinful.
This is followed by dinner, complete with wine and dessert.
It is heavenly. It is dangerous. And it is beginning to make itself felt.
Last night, after my fourth spoonful of sticky toffee pear pudding, I wanted to retire to my room. I reached my so-called 'diet door' - and paused. A moment of doubt. A hint of fear. I turned sideways, as one does. Nothing. A little wobble. A gentle push. Then I managed to glide through with the grace of a stranded seal.
But this morning it's... tighter.
If this feast continues, I reckon I'll be completely trapped by Friday. The others will find me there, halfway to the bathroom, a cake in one hand and a notebook in the other, mumbling about travel stories and personal growth. They will have to churn me out.
Tonight we are reading our stories. Most of them are heart-wrenching memoirs, ghost stories or poetic observations of the Welsh landscape. Mine, however, has become a thriller: The expanding writer and the shrinking door. The tension is real, the stakes are high, and the protagonist's waistline is extremely believable.
When Wendy hands me my breakfast in the morning, I'll smile bravely, shake my head and say, "No thanks, I have to think about the door."
On the other hand... pancakes topped with maple syrup are pretty convincing.
If you don't hear from me at the weekend, please send help. Or butter. Or maybe a door frame extension.
Kind regards
Britta
