George Bernard Shaw’s office, a hideout that allowed him privacy since, “People bother me,” Shaw confessed. “I came here to hide from them.”
He liked journeying forth to his office. It allowed his wife to tell callers he was “out”. This writing hut, sometimes referred to as a “summer house”, sometimes mistaken for a tool shed, took him a good minute or two to reach after he stepped from the veranda at the back of the house (“my Riviera”). In some ways, the sanctuary resembled Doctor Who’s flying police phone box: smaller-looking outside than within. And it gave the illusion of flying round the world since, with a couple of hefty shoves morning and afternoon, it could be made to revolve and follow the sun. And who would have guessed it contained so much technology? There was an electric heater, a typewriter, a bunk for Napoleonic naps and a telephone to the house which could be used for emergencies such as lunch: surely everything a writer could need.