Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh.
How wonderful to wake up to those words! Followed by frothy Nespresso coffee and osteoporosis-busting ReadyBrek in bed.
I have never been happier. I haven’t felt like this for literally decades. Butterflies, indigestion, beating heart, loss of appetite, too much booze and fags, amazement, disbelief, loud music, dancing, and singing. I’m astonished that my stomach ulcer hasn’t returned. A soul mate. Connections on every level. Siamese twins. Matching Lego bricks. Kindred spirits.
I’m so up myself that I had become convinced I’d never, ever, manage to find anybody I rated more highly than me; whose company I would enjoy day after day, even more than that of my best girlfriends.
Least of all via the last-resort loser-world of online dating. How thorough are those computers?! It’s a miracle.
9 1/2 weeks looms. And after that, according to Google, thanks to changing chemicals in the brain my infatuation phase will end within three months, and our romance stage after one to two years. How do I make all this stuff hurry up so I know where I am?
Just – eeek and ooer.
“Are you sitting down?” I exclaim. “His grandmother taught me and everyone else I know the piano til we were twelve! She had blue hair!”
This is the result of my meeting with the MD of the Dating/Events company who’s asked me to speak at her ‘Author’s Talk’ in September. She appears to be more interested in matchmaking me than in my books which she hasn’t read.
She’d given me his name, and original family name, so obviously I stalked him on Google the minute she was out of the door, and top of the entries was an article he’d written in the Scottish Daily Mail about his famous composer grandfather, married to my ex-piano teacher.
She says he’s brainy and quirky – well I love all that; and shoots, so he understands my world.
I told her I’d give her a million quid if she found me the man of my dreams. But since then I’ve reduced my offer to a grand, as I don’t actually have a million. And now I’m worrying about how and when you can actually tell that this is finally ‘the one’. Perhaps there should be a scale of charges. Maybe thirty quid if you find yourself sharing a thoroughly enjoyable, stimulating meal together, that gets you all excited. A hundred quid if you sleep with them; three hundred if you’re still with them after three months; and a thousand if you marry them.
Meanwhile the 6′ willowy blonde vision of loveliness that comprises Nell, the agency owner, explains that the Author’s Evening will probably comprise only around eight people sitting in a circle in a very relaxed way, and I won’t need to have prepared a talk or anything. God – I could actually look forward to this. Two hours of talking about myself without stopping, to a rapt audience! Lovely jubbly!
“I’ve chosen to approach you personally because you share the unusual surname of an old mate of mine – he was in Dad’s house at Eton . His brother, Bob, once threw up all over me at some Exeter Uni party…”
At least this agent replied:
“Well, this definitely wins for original approach! Michael is a second cousin – he is married to another literary agent – unless there is more than one Michael.
I have also looked up your B&B, looks beyond fab.
Anyway, I find your writing hilarious, suited to a blog. You are v good at writing in excerpts / snippets. Do you use twitter? Basically you just need to get people following / liking / sharing and then further down the road when you have a proper blog following, you think about the book.”
So – three books already written and available on Amazon, and here I am. Back blogging.
I will become a successful (if not respected) author, if it kills me!