...is finally out! It's been a big week, really, starting with Jane Wenham-Jones' launch of Wannabe a Writer at Borders in Charing Cross Road on Saturday. Thoroughly enjoyable, much wine was consumed and there were many mates to talk to. I also vaguely remember being asked to write a column about sex for the over fifties. I think I said yes, despite knowing nothing about it - from experience, that is, not age - but as I can't remember what it was for (magazine? Website?) I don't suppose it matters. Had even more drinks with Jane, Lynne Barrett-Lee and our publisher afterwards, a rather nice pub meal and a long taxi journey to Victoria via Euston. Don't ask.
Sunday my arthritis objected to too much wine and five hours of standing. My knees were so painful I could barely walk. I went to bed early on account of having to pick Travelling Daughter up at Heathrow at stupid o'clock and naturally didn't sleep. Duly picked her up, she having had only two hours sleep in 24, whereupon she phoned everyone in her phone book, had her hair done, downloaded all her photographs onto the computer, got them printed and insisted on the fizzy being opened the minute her big sister and nephew arrived at 5pm. By this time I was a wreck, having had roughly the same amount of sleep and cooked a four dish curry (her request) for 6 of us.
Tuesday I went to sign copies of Murder at The Laurels, which had officially come out on Monday, at our local indie bookshop, Pirie and Cavender. No public signing this time, as I want to do one for the next book in November, asnd I don't want the inhabitants of Whitstable to get fed up with me. Leo and I had a rehearsal for Murder Music and Mayhem and Wednesday both of them (Philly and Leo) left. Philly has gone up to spend the last two weeks of her tenancy at her London flat and Leo can't bear to stay in the house with his sister. (I did say she wouldn't be here for the next two weeks, but he'd been offered a room and it seemed churlish to refuse, especially as the offeree has also offered him a job.)
Yesterday, feeling bereft -empty nest syndrome - I went to pick up books (Jane's and Lynne's) I had ordered from afore-mentioned bookshop and the owner showed me our local paper, in which I appear larger than life with a whole page to myself. I am a "Whitstable Pearl" and the (extremely good looking) young reporter has been exceptionally kind and actually got things right. He's left out all the things I would have wanted in there, like mention of all my children and how talented they are, but otherwise it's fine. However, there will be a touch of the schadenfreudes among those who know me, I'm sure. Wait for her to trip up, they'll be saying.
Today I will work. Publisher telephoned on Monday to ask if I had the revisions ready for new edition of panto book which comes out in December and had I got a title for book 4 in the Libby Sarjeant series scheduled for next June. ?????? This, of course, all sounds wonderful to anyone not in the writing game. The reality is explained beautifully, and comically, in Jane's book. Read it, and you will realise why we're all still broke - and still doing it. Oh - and read mine, too.