When I was a child, we would visit my Auntie Emily and Uncle Alfred in their house in London Colney. I used to think the place sounded rather exotic because it had two names (I was born in Sidcup so my exoticness scale was limited). I also thought that its origins might have something to do with coal, because of the relative similarity of the words ‘Colney’ and ‘coal’.

Neither one of these statements was correct.

In actual fact, Auntie Emily was my father’s aunt and she and Uncle Alfred were childless, although they did have a large, bad-tempered cat named Old Boy.

I remember these visits as intriguing because of the lack of other children or indeed any items that might be of interest or stimulation to a young child. There was a draught excluder shaped like a dachshund that I would try to hug before receiving a warning glance from my Aunt.

There was a gold coin, which hung on the fir tree at the end of the garden. I was never invited into the garden. I’m not sure why, but I always suspected that Uncle Alfred didn’t want me to have that gold coin or possibly cause any damage to his prize dahlias.

Sometimes I would sneak off in search of Old Boy and often find him curled up on the counterpane, which covered my Aunt and Uncles’ bed. I can remember holding out a hand to stroke him one day and receiving a neat scratch for my troubles.

My aunt was a proud woman. She had worked in service as a cook and always laid on an extravagant meal, designed to impress. She had not reckoned on my five-year-old self when she served dessert one day. She introduced us to her, ‘Pear Condé’ with clutched-bosom pride. I took one mouthful and declared,

‘This is cold rice pudding!’

My mother squeezed my hand under the table with a mixture of silencing embarrassment and maternal pride.

I particularly remember having to kiss my aunt on arrival and departure – her pursed lips and round face with hair sprouting from her chin, as well as the electric shock I always received, made it a dreaded experience.

I had other aunties as I was growing up – friends of my mother who were christened ‘auntie’ but who weren’t relations. I loved these aunties. My mother’s best friend and her daughter were my favourites. They were my godmothers too. It always seemed rather cool to have a godmother who was only fifteen or so years older than me. She used to take me shopping or meet me and my mother for lunch during a break from her exciting job in fashion at Marks and Spencer’s head office. She always wore lovely clothes and smelt wonderful.

My children have a whole raft of aunties both related and unrelated and they love them all. Auntie Becs is amazing because she’s a doctor and not just a doctor but a consultant who does operations and everything. Auntie Sarah knows A LOT about Greek myths, which makes her a particular hit with my daughter. Auntie Marianne is pure magic with springy curly hair and according to my son, the best laugh ever.

They have uncles too. Uncle Nick is a bit edgy and takes the mickey out of their Mum. Uncle Pants is called Uncles Pants so that’s just about perfect. Uncle Cheese (so-called because my son couldn’t pronounce ‘Steve’ as a baby) will play any game at any time for as long as you want and never gets bored or have to do the washing-up, unlike Mum and Dad.

When I wrote Life or Something Like It, I wanted to give a little shout of joy to the aunties and uncles. Mums and Dads are all very well and vital, but aunties and uncles have the capacity to be something akin to super-heroes.

Cat Nightingale is no super-hero to start with. She’s not quite as bad as Auntie Emily but she has no idea how to be around children. When she is thrown into Charlie and Ellie’s world, she is what my children term, ‘an epic fail.’

She meets Finn, uncle to Ellie’s best friend Daisy. He is pretty much the perfect uncle – funny, fun and completely devoted to Daisy. Cat hates him on sight.

Cat thinks she can win the children round by treating their care like a PR exercise, by wowing them with grand gestures and showing them the world. She doesn’t realise that it’s the children who are about to show her the world and it’s a messy chaotic one, which she resists at first.

It’s her holiday with the children, Finn and Daisy that turns everything on its head and shows Cat what it’s like to be a proper auntie.

So I would like to raise a cheer for Auntie Cat, Uncle Finn and all those other aunts and uncles who make children’s lives that little bit more magical, who smooth down the edges for their parents and in the case of Auntie Emily, serve cold rice pudding to five-year-olds.

As I limped, like a Duracell bunny whose batteries have finally expired, over the finishing line known as ‘the last day of term’, I realised that I was feeling a bit tired. We all get tired, right? We all feel a little run down and in need of a rest. Everyone craves a prolonged stretch lying down in a darkened room, preferably asleep.

The problem was, I hadn’t quite realised just how tired I was. I thought I could carry on doing a bit of social media here, a bit of writing there. It was my husband who put me straight.

‘You need a break. From everything.’

He was right. Apart from writing, I have my children, my ageing parents and all the other ‘stuff of life’ to sort. I sometimes feel like a computer whose memory is too full.

‘No space available’.

I needed to download.

A week later we went to Cornwall. I had the good sense once upon a time to marry a Cornishman so we go to the south-west quite a bit. We stayed with my mother-in-law (a good one in case you’re wondering) for three nights before heading further west to camp on a farm in Sennen, near to Land’s End.

One of the things I like most about camping is the way it forces you to just be in the moment. That and the fact no-one expects you to wash. Or brush your hair. It’s like the early days of motherhood.

Anyway, I like to try to be ‘in the moment’ if I can.  I’m not very good at that mindful stuff. I need a lot of practice. I get distracted by thoughts of what we’re having for tea or if I remembered to lock the back door. Still, it’s good to try. Actually, I think it’s quite important for your soul.

It’s also one of the themes I explored in my l latest book, Life or Something Like It. The main character Cat, is forced to step down from her high-powered job for a while and ends up looking after her brother’s two children over the summer. On a holiday to Suffolk, where the phone signal is patchy, she has to slow down and learn how to just be again.

Time slows down on a campsite, there’s nothing to rush for. Admittedly a few star jumps during the early evening will keep you warm as the air grows cold but apart from that, you’re on a go-slow. No hurrying allowed.

I also didn’t see a single person with a phone, apart from for photographing purposes. There were no children playing on iPads. Instead I noticed several small boys sitting together, each with a snail balanced on the top of one hand, happily chatting to their new pets. I saw older children riding bikes or kicking footballs. I was startled by a small girl as I returned from the loo one evening who held up her clasped hands to me and squeaked, ‘I caught a cricket!’ Her face was a picture. She reminded me of Ellie from Life or Something Like It, and it made me smile.

So we sat outside our tent, watching the sun rise and fall behind a perfect slice of blue sea, we ate weird but delicious ‘codge-ups’ of food, we followed the secret path towards the magical promise of beach below, we clambered over the rocks, we ate pasties on the sand and mussels in the sea-front pub at Sennen.

Of course, I have to insert a caveat here. Had it been a) raining b) two degrees cooler or c) noisy, I would have enjoyed it a good deal less but it wasn’t.

It was wonderful and the perfect place to download my brain and just be for a while. Cat Nightingale has taught me well.

When I ask my ten-year-old daughter if she might want to have children one day, the answer is swift and uncompromising.

‘No way. It’s completely disgusting and babies are really annoying.’

Fair enough. I have only recently told her about the facts of life and let’s face it, the biological aspects can be pretty jaw-dropping and a tad chucklesome.

I tried to keep it together when the book explained that testicles are often called ‘nuts’ and ‘balls’ due to their approximation in size to walnuts and er, balls during a boy’s development but ended up snorting with uncontrollable laughter. My daughter gave me the Paddington bear stare for which she is known in our family and said, ‘It’s okay, Mum. Just take a moment if you need it.’ Yup, I clocked the role reversal there too.

My point is though, that the question of motherhood hangs over a girl’s head from a very young age. It is jokingly posed through youth but then, when a girl becomes a woman, it’s as if the hourglass of expectation (an expectant expectation you might say) has been turned. The question is now serious. When and if not when, why not?

This was a theme I wanted to explore when I wrote ‘Life or Something Like It.’ My main character, Cat Nightingale has a successful career in PR. She loves her five-star life and is happily single. Above all, she doesn’t want to have children and is unapologetic about this fact. And why shouldn’t she be? It’s her life, her choice and therefore no-one’s business but hers, right?

I think you see where this is going.

At every turn, her life decisions are questioned or worse, an assumption is made. She smiles at a baby on a train and the child’s mother asks her about her children. Her business partner’s wife is incredulous when she asserts that she never wants children. Her brother assumes she is single and childless because her horizons are too narrow. None of these people is unkind, none of them is being mean. They just make assumptions because that’s what people do.

When I was researching the book, I did a straw poll among a cross section of women in their twenties and thirties. I was a little shocked because I always thought that the questions about impending parenthood started mid-thirties; that good old ‘biological clock’ poser – a favourite of elderly relatives who use old age as a handy excuse to be a bit rude. But no, apparently women in their twenties, who are young enough to be my daughter, are being asked the question on an almost weekly basis.

I find this extraordinary. When did we all become so obsessed about the need to reproduce? I mean, I know it’s a basic instinct (and not in a Sharon Stone, no-pants way). I know the human race needs to keep a good supply of humans to avoid extinction but 7 billion and counting? I think we’re fine for now.

I read an interesting article by Rosamund Urwin (see link below) about the cult of parenthood and it made me a little ashamed. I’m a parent but I have never told anyone that they’ll, ‘change their mind’ about having children but then I am in the majority. Have I unwittingly made people feel bad because they didn’t have children? I sincerely hope not and if I did, I am truly sorry. I can only suspect that if parents make the child- and care-free feel bad, it’s mainly because they’re jealous.

In her article, she cited the story of Joel Andresier, who had put a buggy for sale on ebay calling it, ‘the green monster’ because it, ‘signifies everything that ended my happy, care-free, low-cost, child-free life.’ I get this. I absolutely do. When I first had my daughter, I couldn’t quite believe that my old life had gone; the enormity of this fact hit me square in the chops like a well-placed right hook.

And yet no-one admitted it. None of the other parents I knew would talk about it. No-one would say, ‘this is actually a bit boring’ or ‘I’m not sure if I like this’. You’re not allowed to admit it. You are blessed and frankly, you had your twenty minutes (or hour if you’re lying) of fun at the conception. This baby needs you. Get on with it.

So get on with it we do and honestly? The first year of both babies’ lives was intense and hellish, for the first because I hadn’t a clue what I was doing and for the second because I had a baby and a toddler and still no idea what I was doing.

But now? It’s good. It’s really good. I do feel blessed and lucky. My kids make me laugh and cry and shout. Other people do this too. I just don’t love them as much. But this is my world and this is what makes me happy. Parenthood isn’t for everyone and we need to stop pretending it is.

When Cat has to step down from her job for a while and her brother asks her to look after his two children, she is thrown into a world of which she has little or no knowledge. She initially approaches it with her efficient, controlled, PR hat on. Unsurprisingly, it’s not long before the hat slips.

But this isn’t about a woman discovering untapped maternal longing. It’s about both sides and what they can learn from one another. Cat Nightingale is unapologetic about her child-free existence and I am unapologetic about choosing motherhood.

Surely the most important thing is to respect each other’s point of view and keep your nose out.

The Cult of Parenthood – Rosamund Urwin

When I wrote my first book, Not Quite Perfect I did little ‘on the ground’ research. This was the first novel I had ever written and to be frank, I just wanted to have a go and see if I could do it. The settings for Emma and Rachel’s stories were loosely based around my home town, my former workplace and where I grew up. I had a clear picture of these locations in my head and no real desire to deviate from them.

To be honest, I didn’t want to leave the house. I just wanted to write, to get it all down and see if it made sense. I also had a four-year and two-year old at the time and they’re not always over-keen on ‘helping Mummy with research’ unless it involves playing in the park, going to the library or visiting Costa for a massive muffin. Those who have read Not Quite Perfect may remember that the book contains scenes involving all three.

As this book became a Kindle bestseller and many reviewers indicated that they’d enjoyed it, the heady realisation hit me that I was a real writer doing whatever it was that real writers do. I had a little panic that I wasn’t already researching my next book.

For this is what proper writers do, isn’t it? They’re across all aspects of their book, from what the main character had for breakfast on a rainy Tuesday in 2003 to where they first met their true and as yet unrequited love the following Wednesday. It’s all in the detail, my friends and although I jest here (I do that from time to time), a believable and therefore better character tends to be a multi-dimensional one.

When I came to write Life or Something Like It, I had already decided that my main character, Cat Nightingale worked in PR. I have never worked in PR but I know a few people who do. So I interviewed them. This was extraordinary fun. I posed lots of ‘would someone do this?’ and ‘what would happen if?’ type questions. I also did a lot of internet research about PR firms, found key people to follow on Twitter, stalked them in an entirely non-threatening and gleefully nosy way. Why haven’t I done this before, I thought? It’s like being a private detective but without having to actually be a private detective.

I have to take a moment here to thank Sir Tim Berners-Lee on behalf of writers everywhere because the internet is bloody marvellous. You can find out almost any detail without leaving the house. For example, I needed to check when the branch line to Southwold in Suffolk was disbanded. Three clicks and it was done. It was the tiniest detail in one conversation between two main characters but it is correct. Now that has to be progress.

However, I don’t always like doing things the easy way. The internet is fabulous but it makes my eyes water and my back hurt. I also realised that I couldn’t keep setting all my books in the same south-east London town. It may work for Anne Tyler (albeit Baltimore rather than Beckenham) but she’s you know, Anne Tyler.

Also, my PR guru friend had indicated that Cat Nightingale might be more of a Shoreditch House type of girl so I packed my notebook, caught the London Overground line and tried to give off an air of bearded preppy cool. I failed due to my lack of all of the aforementioned. If I sported facial hair, I reckon I could have nailed it.

Still, I am of an age where I have finally realised that no-one is looking at me; they’re much too busy staring at their iphones so I can therefore stumble along unnoticed. I can also stop to look at things, take photos and scribble interesting tidbits in my notebook. For me, this is one of the best things about being a writer because I have finally learnt to stop and look around me. I read a fascinating book called ‘Becoming a Writer’ by Dorothea Brande, where she talks about the need to see the world as a child might, through fresh and unfettered eyes. It’s not always possible but when you manage it, it can be very rewarding.

So I stopped for a coffee at a place that was neither a bar nor a coffee shop, but a little of both. I ordered a ‘how much?’ coffee and settled down to watch. All the people I observed were cool and together; they were having meetings about concepts and ‘getting the right people’. They knew what they were doing and where they were going, just like Cat. I was in the right town.

After my pricey but worth it coffee, I strolled towards Columbia Road, home of the famous flower market. It was like watching social history in action as I moved from the re-designed and re-gentrified to the impoverished and run down and back again. Many pockets of London are like this now but it still surprises me when I move so quickly from one to another.

I made my way to Wimbolt Street; a street where I imagined children playing or mothers standing chatting on their front steps in the 1950s. You’d be lucky to buy a two-bedroom house on this road for under £ 1 million these days. This was where I pictured Cat living, in one of the freshly re-rendered brick buildings with lots of natural wood, light and elegant design. I lingered for a while, taking pictures and trying to imagine my heroine returning home here after a hard day dealing with her famous clients, kicking off her heels and mixing a mojito.

I took the long route back towards the Tube, absorbing as many of the sights, sounds and smells as I could. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I was doing this correctly and actually, very little of what I noted down actually ended up in the book.

However. And this is a big however. When I finally started writing the book, I had an entire notebook full of scribblings about Cat’s life. I had snippets and information and a pretty full picture of what she was like, what motivated her, what interested her and most importantly, how she would behave and speak.

Of all the books I have written, she is the character  I know best. I had walked in her shoes (nicer than the ones I can afford) and strolled through her manor. I understood what made her tick. As a result, her story flowed better than any other I’ve written. This is partly due to experience but I think the research was key. It enabled me to breathe life into an idea and make her as real as I possibly could.

It has also taught me that whenever I’m in need of inspiration or more details, all I need to do is grab my notebook, jump on a train and head off to meet my latest character. If I’ve done my homework, I may even bump into them.

It doesn’t get much better than that for a writer. Unless your chosen subject matter is serial killers. Then the internet is very useful and staying at home is probably for the best.

When I was growing up, my Dad used to joke that his children had brought him up. I used think this was a funny thing to say; a trait of my Dad’s quirky and often outrageous sense of humour. After all, this was the man who told me from a very young age, that I had been found as a baby in a lift in Lewisham. I think I might have believed it for a time and actually, been quite proud. Such a beginning was the stuff of stories. I was Harry Potter before Harry Potter even existed and in south-east London, which is cool because it’s not cool. Yeah. I rock.

So for me, it was one of those things your parents say; a declaration of parental pride following some precocious quip or deed by my brother or me. That was until I had children. When I had children, something very odd happened (no, not that – that’s meant to happen, although flipping heck, it is odd)

People say that they change when they have children, that it alters you and makes you a better person. I agree with this in part but I actually think it turned me into lots of different versions of myself. It made me realise things that I needed to know but didn’t necessarily want to acknowledge too.

Firstly, I don’t like babies. Actually that sounds awful. Of course I like babies. I’m not a monster. I’ll re-phrase that. As a mother, I struggled with the baby phase. I thought I would be a natural; all soft and warm and maternal.

In truth? I found it exhausting, repetitive and often lonely. Feed, wind, change, repeat. I did it but I didn’t enjoy it. At this point I know there are thousands of women who can’t have children and who would love to go through this and I am sorry. I feel bad for saying it out loud but it was just how I felt at the time. Above all, I felt frustrated and sad that it didn’t come naturally to me. It was as if a vital part of my female psyche was missing.

However, this tiny, needy phase doesn’t last long and this is something else I have learnt from my children; nothing stays the same for long. This is a blessing when you’re pacing the floor at 5 am trying to remember the words to that James Taylor lullaby but actually, when you turn around and suddenly your eldest child is ten (as happened to me this year), you feel time passing like a conveyor belt at Yo Sushi. Life is short, time moves quickly. Don’t wish it away but learn to live in the moment. I don’t mean to sound like a ‘quote of the day’ calendar but actually, these adages are true and children get this. When we were children, we got this too.

When my daughter was a baby, we went on many happy trips to the park to feed the ducks (usually stopping at the café to buy me an emergency Kit Kat). My daughter would stare at the squirrels for hours as if trying to work out how they fitted in to the grand scheme of things. To her, this was time well spent; a vital part of deciphering the world she had just joined.

‘Cock!’ she would declare, pointing a pudgy finger towards a skittering squirrel before gazing up at me with confusion.

‘Squirrel,’ I would say. ‘Squi-rrel.’

She would scrutinise me with an intense frown as if I hadn’t considered the question properly. ‘Cock!’ she repeated with some insistence. We still call them, ‘cocks’ to this day.

Now her vocabulary has widened, she has ideas and lots of questions. She recently learnt about Greek Myths at school. I confess that there is gaping hole in my knowledge where Greek Myths should be, but my daughter sought to plug it as she came home every night with a new story to share. It was awe-inspiring to see her imagination so fired and wonderful for her to teach me. She is also teaching me how to play the piano and how to ‘cut shapes’, although she has made it clear that if I ever try to perform it in front of her friends, she will go and live with Grandma. Fair enough.

Similarly, my son is trying to teach me the name of all the Liverpool players as well as how to perform a rainbow flick. I almost sprained my ankle trying last week but the look on his face was reward enough.

My children were a big inspiration for my latest novel. My main character, Cat Nightingale is at the peak of her PR career, single, child-free and very happy. When a PR launch ends in disaster, she has to step back from her job for a while. This coincides with her brother asking her to look after his children over the summer. Immediately, Cat is thrown into a very different world –  from her usually controlled existence to the unpredictable dramas of life with her ten-year-old nephew, Charlie and six-year-old niece, Ellie. Initially, she is terrified; a reluctant childminder in their chaotic world. However, it’s through the children that she starts to realise certain things about herself and is forced to acknowledge that she wasn’t perhaps as happy as she first thought.

Like Cat, my children made me look at myself again. They made me see who I was and who I wanted to be. They have taught me to slow down, embrace the chaos (most of the time) and be the only mother I can be; grumpy at times, indulgent at others. I don’t always get it right but that’s okay. Doing your best is good enough. That’s the most important lesson of all.

People often ask me what a publication day is like. As my third novel is published today, I will share with you the fantasy and the reality.

In my head, I wake on publication day around 8 o’clock to my husband delivering breakfast in bed (a lightly poached egg, glass of Bucks Fizz, coffee in my favourite mug) and presenting me with copies of all the major broadsheets, who are carrying glowing reviews of my ‘literary triumph’. My children join us and demand that I read out ‘the funny bits with the kids’, from my latest tome. After breakfast, the doorbell rings as the first bouquet of the day arrives. From this moment onwards, it’s a steady stream of flower and champagne gifts throughout the morning. I turn to Twitter to field the raft of congratulatory tweets and bask in the warmth of the writing community’s love. My phone rings. It’s JK Rowling asking if I want to be best friends. I graciously accept. The day is spent in a haze of leisurely, bookish joy before I head into London for my publication day party held at a trendy back-street literary club. All my writing friends are there. JK keeps topping up my champagne glass. Nigel Slater has done the cooking. We drink, laugh and have the most wonderful evening. The next day I feel warm, happy and hangover free.

In reality, I wake on publication day around 6.50 to the sound of that day’s disturbing headlines on my clock radio. I keep my eyes shut and drift back into troubled sleep. I wake at 7.20 to my husband delivering the news that I am seriously late. I swear and haul my sorry backside out of bed. My children join us and demand breakfast. I grumble my way around the kitchen trying to find the makings of two healthy packed lunches. I fail. After breakfast, the doorbell rings as a package for next door arrives. From this moment, it’s hell on earth as I try to encourage, persuade and co-erce the children to get ready for school. We fling ourselves out of the door and into the car. I curse the traffic, the awful radio station the kids insist on listening to and life in general but we make it just in time. I turn to Twitter to field the raft of congratulatory tweets and bask in the warmth of the writing community’s love. My phone rings. It’s my husband asking if I can manage without the car next Tuesday so that they can fix the parking sensor. I ungraciously agree. The day is spent watching both my children compete in their school sports day in a haze of dehydration and maternal pride. After school, I ferry my son to his swimming lesson. Back home, I try to decipher his Year 2 maths homework (tricky) and my ten-year-old daughter’s geometry homework (impossible). After dinner, I play tennis and return home at nine o’clock for my publication day party held in the back garden (conservatory if wet). My husband and I are the only two in attendance. I keep topping up my prosecco glass. My husband has poured crisps into a bowl. We drink, laugh and have the most wonderful evening. The next day I feel warm, happy and very hungover.

As Cat opened the front door to her bijou terraced house later that evening, she felt uncharacteristically flustered. She had been in charge of her nephew and niece for approximately four hours and could honestly say that it had been the most stressful experience of her life.

When Andrew arrived, alarm bells started to ring. Charlie was trailing reluctantly behind whilst Ellie was pulling her father by the hand like an overexcited puppy. Andrew smiled sheepishly as he entered her office and looked apologetic as he tried to coax Charlie to speak. The boy wouldn’t even look at his aunt whilst Ellie flung her Frozen rucksack to one side and began to take in her surroundings with enthusiastic hunger. She bounced her way along Cat’s sofa as the verbal tidal wave began.

‘Ooh this is bouncy, I like it, who is that?’ she asked pointing at the picture of Grace Kelly. Cat opened her mouth to speak, failing to understand that six-year-olds don’t really have time for answers. ‘Is that your desk? It’s big isn’t it? Is that your computer? Can I touch it? Is this where you do your work?’ She had bounced her way to the end of the sofa and was now making herself comfortable on Cat’s swivel chair. ‘Whee!’ she cried whizzing round before pausing to pick up Cat’s office phone. ‘Hello? Can I have a milkshake, please?’ She giggled with delight. ‘This is fun.’

Cat felt her shoulders bristle with tension. ‘Is she always like this?’ Cat whispered to her brother. She noticed that Charlie had slumped down on the sofa, hood up, arms folded.

Andrew screwed up his face. ‘Pretty much but she’s a bit hyped-up today because of coming to see Auntie Cat, aren’t you, Ellie?’

‘Wheeee!’ cried Ellie in reply, whizzing round again on the chair.

‘Thank you so much for this,’ said Andrew. ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’

Cat gave her best PR smile. ‘We’ll be fine, won’t we, kids?’ Neither answered.

Andrew kissed his sister on the cheek. ‘I owe you big time. Right, kids, come and give your dad a hug.’ Ellie flew to her father whilst Charlie remained rigid with arms folded. Andrew gave him a nudge. ‘Now listen, you two, you be good for Auntie Cat and I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?’

‘Okay, Daddy,’ said Ellie with an angelic smile.

Charlie buried his head in his father’s chest. Andrew sat down on the sofa and put an arm around him. ‘Hey, fella, it’s going to be okay. Auntie Cat will take care of you, like she used to take care of me, okay?’ Charlie nodded his head but didn’t look up. Andrew glanced at his watch. ‘Right, Daddy’s got to go and get his flight. I’ll see you all tomorrow, all right?’ said Andrew taking his leave.

‘All right, Daddy. I love you,’ said Ellie giving him a gap-toothed grin.

‘Love you too, princess.’

He ruffled Charlie’s hair and gave a final wave before disappearing out of sight. Cat, Ellie and Charlie stared at one another for a moment as the stunned realisation finally hit Cat that she was in charge. ‘So,’ she said trying not to betray the panic in her voice, ‘why don’t you play with whatever toys you’ve brought while I do some work?’

Ellie looked disappointed but sat down and started rummaging in her bag anyway. Charlie seemed happy with this instruction, his face furrowed with concentration as he settled into a game on his iPad. Cat breathed a sigh of relief and took a seat at her desk ready to work. Maybe this wasn’t going to be as bad as she feared.

Of course, having never really dealt with a six-year-old, Cat had little or no experience of the concept of boredom thresholds. Seven minutes later, Ellie tossed her sticker book to one side and sidled up to her brother. ‘What you doing?’ she asked.

‘Playing Minecraft.’

‘Can I watch?’

‘No.’ Charlie was used to his sister and knew how to deal with her intrusions. Ellie harrumphed and folded her arms. Charlie ignored her so Ellie had to look elsewhere for entertainment. She peered over at Cat who was ensconced in the task at hand. Ellie looked around the room and began to make a dripping tap noise with her mouth.

‘Stop it, Ellie, you’re being annoying,’ snapped Charlie.

Cat glanced over at her. Ellie took this as an immediate invitation. She wandered up to Cat’s desk. ‘What you doing?’

‘I’m working,’ said Cat not looking up, hoping that Ellie would take the hint. She didn’t.

‘Can I help?’ asked Ellie moving closer, making it impossible for Cat to move her mouse or type.

Cat did her best to keep her voice level. ‘Not really. Why don’t you go back and play, like Charlie?’

‘I don’t want to,’ said Ellie plainly.

Cat was stumped. She had no frame of reference for this. ‘Well what do you want to do?’

‘Play with you,’ said Ellie.

Cat felt desperate. ‘I’m sorry but I’ve got to work.’

‘Can I have a biscuit?’

‘Erm, I’m not sure if I’ve got any.’

‘You don’t have any biscuits?’

‘I’ve got an apple.’

Ellie scowled. ‘Can’t eat apples ’cos of my wobbly teeth,’ she said, opening her mouth and probing at a particularly unstable-looking front tooth with her tongue.

Cat winced. She was a practised problem solver but she had no idea how to make this small person stop demanding her attention or sharing her dental freakiness. ‘I could try and find you a biscuit,’ she offered desperately.

‘Ooh yay biscuits!’ cried Ellie, skipping around the room. Cat sighed and got up. ‘Can I come with you?’ asked her niece, leaping up and down.

‘All right. Would you like a biscuit, Charlie?’ The boy shook his head without looking up. ‘Right. Good. Biscuits,’ said Cat, making her way towards the kitchen. Ellie smiled and gave everyone they met a cheery hello. Jesse was making himself a coffee in the kitchen as they entered.

‘Hey, Kit Kat, how are you doing?’ He glanced at Ellie. ‘Wow, the interns are getting younger and younger.’

Cat smiled. ‘This is my brother’s daughter, Ellie. He had a crisis and you know how I love a crisis.’

Jesse laughed. ‘Rather you than me. Hello, little lady.’

Ellie frowned at him. ‘Hello, big man.’

He smiled and turned back to Cat. ‘So what about tonight’s dinner?’

‘Dan’s going. I’ve briefed him fully and he’s going to call me if there are any problems.’

‘Are you sure he can handle it? I would go but it’s Alex’s birthday and we’ve got reservations at Nobu.’

‘Who’s Alex? Is she your daughter?’ asked Ellie nosily. ‘What kind of cake is she having? I had a Frozen one for my last birthday. I love Frozen.’

Cat ignored her niece. ‘It will be fine. Dan is our resident football expert and he speaks Spanish so he’s just the man to look after Alvarro.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Trust me, the dinner is due to finish at ten and Alvarro will be tucked up in his hotel by eleven so that he’s all fresh and ready for the launch tomorrow.’ Unimpressed by being ignored, Ellie had decided to make her own fun and was currently experimenting with the water cooler. ‘Ellie, what are you doing?’ cried Cat as water seeped slowly across the kitchen floor.

Ellie took a step to one side and put down the cup. ‘Somebody spilt that,’ she said innocently.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Jesse.

Cat grabbed handfuls of paper towels in a bid to soak up the mess. Ellie watched her with interest. ‘Can I have that biscuit now, please?’

Exasperated, Cat found the biscuit tin. ‘Just take it!’ she said.

Ellie eyed her suspiciously. ‘There’s no need to be so cross,’ she said, taking the tin and leaving the kitchen. ‘It was just an accident.’

Cat took a deep breath and did her best to clear up the mess. She made a strong pot of coffee and carried it back to her office. Charlie was exactly where she had left him, shoulders hunched, eyes glazed as he played his game. Ellie, on the other hand, had made herself comfortable at Cat’s desk and was talking to someone on the phone.

‘Ellie, give me the phone now!’ cried Cat in a panic.

Ellie looked up in surprise and passed the phone without a word. She skulked back to her seat and began unhappily shovelling biscuits into her mouth.

‘Hello?’ said Cat into the phone.

‘Cat? It’s Will. What the hell is going on? Was that a child answering your phone?’

Cat’s stomach sank. ‘Sorry, Will, it was just my niece and – ’

‘I don’t want to hear it, Cat. I was phoning to check we’re okay for tonight and tomorrow.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Are you sure? Because I’m starting to get concerned.’

‘You don’t need to worry. Everything is under control.’

‘All right. See you tomorrow.’

Cat hung up before turning to Ellie. ‘Don’t ever touch my phone again,’ she snapped. Ellie’s lip began to wobble. Cat panicked. ‘Now don’t cry, Ellie. You don’t need to cry.’

But it was too late. Ellie’s body trembled and tears coursed down her face. Cat watched helplessly as Charlie put down his game and went over to comfort his sister. He glared at his aunt. ‘You don’t have to be such a mean cow. She’s just a little girl. She’s a bit naughty sometimes but only because she wants attention.’

Cat was stung by his words. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I have to work, you see?’ she said pathetically.

Charlie shrugged. ‘Whatever. Come on, Ellie, I’ll play a game with you,’ he said.

Cat felt wretched as she returned to her desk. The children were occupied now with a drawing game. She noticed that Charlie occasionally whispered comments to Ellie and they would glance up at Cat and giggle. It made her feel uncomfortable and even though they were quiet she found it increasingly difficult to concentrate.

‘How do you ever get anything done?’ she wailed to her brother when he phoned later that evening.

Andrew gave a wry chuckle. ‘Welcome to my world, dearest sister. Did you remember to feed them? They’re evil when they’re hungry.’

‘I ordered takeaway pizza,’ admitted Cat.

‘I bet that won you some brownie points.’

‘Hmmm.’ In fact, the children had been quiet and sullen. They seemed to retreat into their own little world after the incident at the office and it was clear that Cat wasn’t welcome.

‘Well obviously bedtime wasn’t a problem. Clearly you’re a natural,’ offered Andrew with cheerful encouragement.

Cat gave a hollow laugh. In fact Charlie had overseen the bedtime routine, making sure his sister cleaned her teeth properly and tucking her in after she insisted that he do it. He had played on his iPad for a short while before taking himself off to bed.

‘Night then,’ Cat had ventured, receiving a barely audible grunt in reply. She had poured herself a large glass of wine as a reward and carried it into the living room. Noticing the contents of Ellie’s rucksack strewn across her normally pristine lounge floor, she had reached down to repack them. She picked up one of Ellie’s drawings of a very tall lady with ears like a cat and the label ‘Cross Aunty Cat’, to which Charlie had added the words ‘smells of poo’. Her immediate reaction had been one of hurt and then she felt ridiculous. Her thoughts had been interrupted by Andrew’s phone call.

‘“Natural” isn’t exactly the word I would use,’ said Cat. ‘Just make sure you don’t have any more last-minute business trips while Melissa’s away.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ laughed Andrew.

‘Right well I need to go and do the work I couldn’t finish because of your children,’ she joked.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied Andrew. ‘And thanks again – you saved my life.’

Cat hung up and flicked her phone to her social media channels, noting several texts from Dan reporting that all was well at the dinner. As Cat spent the next hour catching up on everything that had happened in the last few hours, she became aware of a new and unusual sensation. It all felt like a bit of an effort and she realised that she was tired and distracted by the presence of the children. She felt disconcerted by her inability to focus on her job while they were around, as if her brain were in two places at the same time. She shook it off as something temporary and carried on working, knowing that she would be dissatisfied if she didn’t. In Cat’s mind, today’s episode only served to vindicate her decision to remain single and child-free. Her life was ordered and organised and even though she was happy to help her brother, she couldn’t wait for the moment when they’d be gone and she could return to normal.

Tiredness got the better of her and she fell asleep. She was woken at midnight by the sound of her phone ringing. It was Jesse. She immediately knew that something was wrong.

‘Cat, we’ve got a serious problem.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Alvarro’s gone AWOL. The pictures are all over the internet. I’ve just had the CEO of Daily Grind on the phone. They’re cancelling the launch.’

‘Shit. What’s he done?’

‘Apart from being photographed snorting cocaine with a prostitute and getting into a fight?’

‘Oh God. Where was Dan when this was going on?’

‘Oh he’s in the pictures too. So much for trusting him to take care of things. We’re finished, Cat. Completely finished.’

You can buy the complete book using this link:

I am happier than a tennis player through to the next round of Wimbledon to be introducing this extract from A.L. Michael’s brilliant new book.

Make yourself a coffee, kick back and enjoy…

Chapter One

‘So, Imogen … why should I hire you?’

Darrel, the manager of BeanTown, was the sort of man who polished his name badge. His knobbly elbows stuck out from his branded short-sleeve shirt, and he was wearing a baseball cap that proclaimed ‘It’s all in the beans!’ He tilted his head to the side, his body relaxed into the plastic chair. The posture of someone drunk on the power he had been given.

‘Because … I’m desperate,’ Imogen said staunchly, bitter enough about having to apply for the damn Mcjob in the first place.

‘And do we think desperation is a qualification, hmm?’ Darrel raised an eyebrow infuriatingly, that smarmy grin on his face.

Imogen was not going to waste the same answers she’d been giving for the last two weeks: she was enthusiastic, she was hard-working, driven, passionate, eager to succeed, a team player, a solo player … she was a performing monkey who just needed a damn job.

‘Darrel,’ Imogen leaned in, swiping a strand of dark hair behind her ear so she could focus on him intensely. Her dad had always said once she set those hazel eyes on someone, they’d cave. He never said if it was out of appreciation or fear, but she suspected the latter. ‘Desperate people are in the unique position that they will do anything, and I mean anything, to keep their jobs.’

Shit, that sounded like a proposition. She back-pedalled.

‘What I mean is, that because I am so very eager for this job, you can be guaranteed that I won’t slack off. I’ll be here on time, I’ll be willing to work, I won’t complain. You catch me complaining and you can fire me on the spot,’ she promised with a wide grin.

Imogen sat up straight, head held high, like she was a prize beagle showing off her skills. Please, please, please …

‘All right, let’s give it a go. It’s true what they say about northerners being ballsy. Walking in here and telling me you’re desperate wouldn’t have got anyone else a job!’ Darrel laughed, a single hoot.

Probably because they’ve all still got their self-respect in existence and their self-esteem intact, Imogen glowered, but turned all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as Darrel shook her hand and told her she could start a trial shift tomorrow, and to be there by five a.m.

Imogen let the door slam behind her as she walked out onto Holland Park Road. It was drizzling, and as she pulled her hood up it seemed like every single person walking down the pavement bumped into her. What was it with Londoners? Did they have to get everywhere in a hurry? She passed four other cafes that had turned her down, and the pub on the corner that said she didn’t have enough experience. She’d worked in a pub for five years, she argued. Yes, but not a London pub, they’d replied. That always seemed to be the catch.

She trudged along, down the huge wide lanes with the multi-million-pound mansions, counting the sports cars and guessing how many bedrooms each property had.

The point had never been to do pub work anyway. Moving to London to work in a pub … well, she could have stayed in Doncaster. As her father had frequently reminded her five times this week, when he called to see how the job hunt was going.

‘You could still come back,’ he had said softly, and she could imagine him scratching his bald head and walking around in circles, getting tangled up in the cord of the house phone because he refused to buy a wireless one.

‘I thought Babs had turned my room into an office?’ She tried to say it without malice.

‘It’s actually a bedroom for Chico,’ her father whispered, ‘and a mini-gym.’

Babs was a five-eight, size-eight, forty-two-year-old divorcee who was just head over heels for her dad. Which Imogen hadn’t bought for a second, because her dad was a fifty-nine-year-old, five-foot-five, balding, pot-bellied Greek Cypriot man who worked in a butcher’s and had a hairy back. Something was rotten in Doncaster.

But she had to hand it to Babs. In six months she’d got Costa walking five nights a week, cutting back on the red meat and the salt, going to salsa lessons, and had a waxer on speed dial. She was working with raw materials and getting decent results. It was just that she was so … loud about it all. Their house had been so quiet all those years, just her and her dad, reading companionably, sharing meals, drinking Greek coffee. Occasionally the big family would descend upon them, and it would be music and parties and too much food, but for the most part they had a quiet little life. Imogen thought he’d been happy with that.

‘She turned my bedroom into a playpen for her chihuahua?’ Imogen had scoffed, but if she was honest with herself, Babs moving in meant she could move to London and pursue her dreams without worrying over whether her dad knew not to shrink things in the tumble dryer. She was free. It was just a shame that she was free to serve people coffee.

She pounded down the soggy streets until she reached a busy road, all cramped terraced houses leaning on each other out of desperation. She climbed the stairs, opened the door and followed the narrow stairs with the mildew carpet up two flights. Home.

When she’d told her cousin, Demi, about the studio in West London that she was moving to, she’d made it sound exotic and sophisticated. In fact, she was paying an eye-watering amount for a cupboard, with a tiny bathroom and a microwave oven with two hob rings on top. London life was a little depressing.

She flopped onto the bed and opened her laptop, too desperate to even bother taking off her wet shoes. It had seemed fated, this move to London. Her big adventure, after years of saving, staying at home, going to a local uni, working three jobs. Imogen had always known this was her dream, cliche or not. She was going to live in London and write. She didn’t even care what she wrote; she wasn’t the hard-hitting news sort of girl – it made her feel angry and helpless. But writing copy for a charity, writing articles, reviews? Something that could put some positivity out in the world, make people laugh, effect some change. Everything had seemed like it had fallen into place with perfect timing – Imogen had reached her saving goal, Babs had decided to move in, and a friend from uni, Saskia, had given her a heads-up about an internship at her magazine. Which, of course, had fallen apart the minute she got within the radius of the M25. Everything in London seemed to move twice as fast. She’d found a flat, tied up her life and moved down in two weeks – but it wasn’t quick enough. The internship was gone. As was, apparently, every writing opportunity in the city.

Surely one London paper, one tiny magazine or agency would take on a English graduate? Surely someone could do with a fairly intelligent person fetching their coffee? Surely one person out there could say, ‘Oh, hey, she was the editor of her uni paper, and she’s done a Master’s degree in fairy tales – cool!’

Apparently not. But at least she could afford to stay. For now. And how hard could serving coffee be?

What’s the worst job you’ve ever had?

Last week I celebrated the second anniversary (or bookiversary if you will) of my first book’s publication. Not Quite Perfect was published to thunderous applause (from me mainly) on 1^st July 2013. I sat back and waited patiently for the call from Hollywood, or at least JK Rowling asking to become my new BFF.

There may have been some issues with my phone that week for these things did not happen. However, my book did become a Kindle bestseller for much of August, some of September and quite a bit of October. The following year, it was published as an actual paperback to rapturous cheers from the reading public (me again but I coerced my husband and children to join in with the promise of biscuits) and nestled happily alongside the likes of John Green and Bridget Jones for a bit.

This year, it has popped on a beret, thrown a string of onions around its shoulders and hopped across the Channel. Once in France, it has flung aside the beret and onions because we don’t do cultural stereotypes. We are regular listeners to Women’s Hour, don’t you know. Anyway, it’s out in French in France. Je suis très contente.

All of these things have caused my brain to wonder (and possibly wander) as I consider what I have learnt from this really rather exciting experience. Regular readers of this blog will know that along with my children, my husband, coffee, Modern Family, Anne Tyler and chocolate brown Labradors, lists are pretty high up on my list (oh the beautiful synergy) of things that I love.

In my top five list of favourite lists (I could do this all day to be honest), is the ‘what I have learned’ list. Other four? Shopping, to do, favourite cheeses, suitable names for a chocolate brown Labrador.

So today, reader friends, I shall regale you with my, ‘What I have learned since becoming a published author’ list. You’re welcome.

1. Aside from the day my children were born and the day I got married, publication day really was the best day of my life. You have to take a step back, drink champagne and enjoy it. I’m about to publish my third novel and I try to do this every time.

2. I try not to obsess over reviews. Phrases such as ‘one man’s meat is another man’s poison,’ ‘you can’t please all of the people all of the time’ and ‘pass me the gin bottle – I need to get drunk’ are useful. Also, reading the one star reviews of your favourite books makes you feel better. Or the five star reviews you’ve received. Celebrate the big successes, ignore the small failures. I almost sound like a self-help book, but you get the gist.

3. Your second book is going to be better than your first book, your third book is going to be better than your second and so on, provided that you listen to your editor (they are basically writing oracles – they know everything), the advice of honest, trusted readers and that slightly batty inner voice. You know, the one that gets the writing done. Listen to her.

4. One day you will actually feel like a writer – there will be a moment when you think, ‘I know how to do this’. This happened when I was writing my third book – things just flowed a little easier, the story was there for the taking. That’s a good feeling.

5. Social media can be fun but get the writing done first. You can lose days on Twitter but it won’t send you a royalty cheque every three months (some might say this is mean). Words first. Fun later.

6. Get on with it. I met Adele Parks (yeah I know, get me name-dropping – we were having coffee with Taylor Swift and Bruno Mars). It was the spring after my bestseller success. I asked her for advice on what to do next. ‘Do you have a contract for more books with your publisher?’ she asked. ‘I do – they want me to write two more.’ She gave me a wry smile. ‘Just get on with it,’ she said. ‘You’re very lucky.’ And you know what? She was right. Two more books have been written and there are three more on the way. I am bloody lucky.

So that’s my list. It’s not exhaustive and it may not be original (apart from the coffee with Taylor and Bruno) but it sums up where I am today – a very lucky, busy author with a bestseller to her name and a publisher who wants more books from me.

I just need to heed Adele’s advice and get on with it.

I don’t get out much. I’m a writer. We live in draughty garrets, licking our quill pens, wracking our fevered brains for an original thought whilst trying to avoid adverbs, clichés and overdone metaphors. We are word-monkeys, marooned on a desert island, desperate to slake our thirst with a drink from the cup of brilliant narrative.

Like I say. I don’t get out much.

So, when the opportunity arises not only to leave the house but also go to a party and meet my editor for an insightful chat about my next book, I’ll be honest – I get a little giddy. It’s been so long since I went out to work (six years to be precise) that the prospect of travelling into London has actually started to seem exciting again.

My husband doesn’t get this because he travels into London every day and hates it. When I go into London now, I am like a small child. The world is so big, the buildings are so tall and if you look up, really quite splendid.

Commuters don’t look up. They don’t smile. They barely make eye contact. I don’t blame them. London is busy and navigating your way around it is stressful. Commuters have adopted a way of dealing with this as efficiently as possible. They remind me of a shoal of mackerel, fixed on their route, never deviating from that line. If I hit rush hour, I am always woefully out of step with the mackerel. I ended up circumnavigating the whole of Victoria station one day because I couldn’t keep up with them. It didn’t matter though because I was busy looking at the buildings.

Anyway, I digress. For one day only I had somewhere to be. I was to meet my editor at Waterstone’s, Piccadilly at 5 pm before heading off to the Romantic Novelist’s Association Summer Party at 6.30 pm. Sounds brilliant, doesn’t it?

I don’t have much to write on the calendar normally as I don’t usually need to remind myself to ‘do writing’. We have one of those calendars where each person has a column and you have to write the names at the top. Being a family where nicknames are compulsory, I decided to change the names every month according to my chosen theme. Do I need to remind you that I don’t get out much at this point or do you get the gist?

In this particular month, my chosen theme was ‘fish’ (to your obvious question of, ‘why’ I will reply, ‘because’). Each family member was given a fish name corresponding with the first letter of their own name. So my daughter, ‘Ling’ had a busy month of tennis, piano, parties and sleepovers, my son, ‘Arbroath Smokie’ (‘Arbroath’ for short) similarly had parties, football, swimming and tennis. Even my husband, ‘Roach’ had two nights out and a tennis match. Under my nom de mois of, ‘Alewife’, (it’s a real fish name I promise – a type of North American herring), I was down to pick up Arbroath and Ling from their social engagements, visit the osteopath and attend a PTA meeting. Imagine my excitement therefore at writing the words, ‘meet editor’ (I might have even used upper case) and ‘RNA party’. I was exultant.

As the parents among you will know, arranging to go out for an evening takes planning. For this particular event, I did my planning way in advance, my friends. Nothing was going to prevent me from brushing my hair and skipping off to talk books with the great and good of publishing. As I dropped Ling and Arbroath at school that day, I smiled to myself knowing that my maternal duty was done. The children would be collected by a friend. My husband would pick them up later. All I had to do was be on time for my editor.

Of course, what I should have done was plan my day so that I travelled into London at lunchtime, took my time, visited the National Gallery, basked in the new-book scent of my favourite bookshops, and gazed up at the buildings. Obviously, I didn’t do this at all. As is my customary way, I tried to cram too many things into a limited space of time and leave at the last minute.

I did however, manage to brush my hair and change into one of the few vaguely smart outfits I own plus my very favourite ‘going out’ shoes – flat, pointy, metallic silver, gorgeous.

As I entered the station, I was perturbed to learn that my train had been cancelled. How dare it?

I approached the bored-looking man in the ticket office.

‘Excuse me, when’s the next train?’ I asked, keeping my voice light and hopeful as if that might conjure up some transport.

‘Nah trains at the mo, love. Some clown’s ‘it the bridge at Eden Park.’

I was about to complain that I needed to get to London. I had a meeting with my editor. It was written on the calendar. The man didn’t look like he’d be particularly interested. ‘What’s the best thing to do?’ I asked.

‘Git a bus ter Elmers End.’

Brilliant. A bus. Buses are a perfect way to start any night out.

I gritted my teeth and hurried to the bus stop. Fifteen minutes later the bus came. I glanced at my watch. If we got to the station in the next half hour and there was a train right away, I might only be twenty minutes late. I am nothing if not a perpetual optimist.

I texted my editor. She was kind and understanding. I wished she were running the rail network. I’m pretty sure she would have got it sorted.

The bus sat in a traffic jam for fifteen minutes because of the ‘clown’ hitting the railway bridge. I actually hoped it was a real clown in one of those joke cars with a ‘hee-har’ horn and I hoped his car fell apart as a result. Traffic jams always give me dark thoughts.

As soon as the bus reached the station, I was out of the door like a greyhound wearing increasingly uncomfortable shoes. It was a warm day. My silver beauties had no backs but the pointy fronts were a bit sweaty. Too much information I know, but you get the picture.

I galloped down the station steps. There was a train on the opposite platform and a board suggesting another’s imminent arrival. There were however quite a few people standing around giving off an air of puzzled irritation. I approached yet another bored station official.

‘Are there any trains to London?’ I asked with fast-disappearing hope.

The man shook his head. ‘They’re goin’ from Clock ‘ouse.’

‘But I was told Elmers End!’ I pleaded as if this might make the man bring me a train.

He shook his head again. ‘Clock ‘ouse,’ he repeated. ‘You can git a bus. The 358 goes from over the road.’

I took a deep breath as a fleeting vision of Steve Martin and John Candy in Planes, Trains and Automobiles crossed my mind. Wearily and painfully, I climbed the steps ready to cross the road. I watched the 358 bus disappearing into the distance and tried not to cry.

Some small nugget of hope gave me a much needed kick up the bum. I resolved to walk. It wasn’t that far. It was a lovely day and I had my iPod. I glanced at my watch. I might only be forty five minutes late. I know. Even my optimism baffles me sometimes.

I pressed ‘shuffle songs’ and my hilariously funny iPod selected ‘The Long and Winding Road’. I decided to fast forward, marching along to a medley of Stevie Wonder and Ella Fitzgerald. Everything’s better with Stevie and Ella, I told myself as I tried to ignore the blisters forming on my feet.

I arrived at the station, hot, bothered and feeling sorry for myself but there was a train. A lovely train, pointing in the direction of London, about to leave and take me away from all this. As I hobbled down the steps, the train driver gave me an encouraging smile. I probably looked as if I needed it.

‘All right love?’ he asked.

‘Not really,’ I complained. ‘I’ve just walked from Elmers End because they said there were no trains.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m going in five minutes though.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied and meant it. For the frustrated traveller a little sympathy goes a long way. I climbed aboard and flopped into a seat, not daring to look at my battle-scarred feet.

In the end, I was an hour late meeting my editor. She had a glass of prosecco waiting. ‘I thought you might appreciate one of these,’ she smiled. That’s the mark of a good editor – always knowing what your authors need.

The meeting was short and sweet and the party was wonderful. However, the journey home was another disaster involving no direct trains, missed connections and an expensive taxi-ride home.

As I bandaged my feet and nursed a hangover the next day, I realised that going out is a fun but painful experience. I wondered if I should have just stayed at home.

I hobbled over to the calendar, peering at another month of mostly blank spaces and realised that I needed to fill some of those gaps. I just required a week or two to recover and then I would be ready.

Staying at home is for wimps. Going out is for the die-hard adventurers.

Provided I set off the day before and pack some plasters, I’ll be just fine.