If ever I become a successful writer (and it’d have to be really successful) I’d buy an old delapidated castle and restore it to be entirely as it was in the time it was built, the only modern rooms would be the kitchen and bathroom, no heating or electric lights, the whole shebang, and I’d hire a few people to keep it running.

Perhaps open small parts of it to the public in the summer.

And I’d wear cloaks, and chainmail, and tunics and whatever the fuck I felt like wearing and I’d wander around just writing  and being known as a complete eccentric weirdo and I wouldn’t give a shit because I’d be the owner of a fucking castle.