Some people can juggle. I don't know why they want to, but they can. Others can dive, learn languages quickly, play the flute, walk into rooms without crashing into the doorframe
Read MoreThe Horror
The Macmillan Women’s Fiction party was fantastic: a chance to meet my writing stablemates , some friendly booksellers and the few Macmillan/Picador staff I hadn’t harassed encountered (including the designer of my beautiful jacket and backlist who kept saying how pleased she was that I loved them, while nervously backing away). I also made a new friend and then dashed her wine glass from her hand to the floor with an expansive gesture. Class.
There was also a photographer. A photographer who gathered me and two glamorous blonde authors together, saying ‘come on, girls’. I am not a girl. Haven’t been one for years. So, naturally, I made a face, and that was the moment he took the picture. And the next day there we were in the Evening Standard: two glamorous authors and a Feminist, Horrified.
I didn’t keep the cutting. I look like a wry horse in a blouse. But a well-meaning friend saved me a copy, which I crumpled up, threw away, retrieved from my bin and attach now, for your amusement.
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