Pretending to be a proper author

Today, to lunch near Headline’s offices with my editor and my publicist, the formidable Sam Eades.

After a week up a mountain in Spain, where dressing up involved putting another fleece over the one I wore in the day to keep myself a bit warm when we sat outside for dinner, the task of looking presentable seemed quite daunting. However, I managed to scrub up, in the opinion of the Old Man, ‘quite nicely’, and set off on the train for London.

I moved to Brighton thirteen or so years ago, and I have never tired of the sight of the sea as I come across it on my way down the hill from our house. Similarly, I think I will never, ever, tire of going to London (or anywhere) to talk about my book and my work.

‘Are you alright about doing events?’ Sam asked over coffee.

‘Bring ’em on!’ I said. Seriously, I can’t wait – I have for so long sat in the audience at book festivals and literary talks, fantasising about being up there. So Sam is going to take me to a couple of events to meet people and put the old face about a bit. More scrubbing up, then. Oh no, does that mean I’ve got to buy some new frocks? Dang.

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