Blu-Tac, gin and sitting on Jimmy Saville.

I know, I know, I'm a day late with the blog this week.  I shall attribute the tardiness to my general level of snot-production this last week, which was prolific, and it is very hard to type and blow at the same time.  As it is the screen of my laptop is ///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// and the keyboard has got ///////////////////////////////// with ///////////////////all over the Y key.  (This sentence has been edited for those among you whose stomachs may be a little less sturdy than average.  Suffice it to say that it is quite disgusting, and, should your imagination not be equal to the task, you really don't need to know).

Anyway. I'm here now.  So, what can I tell you?  This week is half-term, and I shall mostly be found sealed hermetically into my room with my laptop, finding new ways to avoid writing.  Chief among these will be my interview with Morgen Bailey, which will be podcast this week as Bailey's Writing Tips.  It's all right, I've managed to suppress my desire to have my hair cut again in honour of the event, I shall simply be wearing it swept back in an elegant style, and offset with a cocktail dress in simple velour (always assuming the new sofa covers arrive in time).  And pearls.  Obviously.  Because I am a Lady.

Well, not so much actual pearls, for although I am a Lady I find myself struck with impecunity (it's all right, I've got an ointment), and will have to mock up a pearl necklace using Blu-Tac and some marbles, but I shall look stunning nonetheless.

Like this, but with added Blu-Tac.  And snot.  And a less whimsical expression because, let's face it, she looks as though she's just now realising that she has inadvertently seated herself upon Jimmy Saville.  Which is a huge faux-pas in such circles.

In Other News, I also have to do my Tesco Shopping and assist my husband in his reorganisation of a briefcase which threatens to Overwhelm Us All. But it smells of new leather, which is curiously like the smell of fish, and oddly reassuring.  I also have to finish seeing off the last remnants of The Cold, which was unlike normal colds in its manner of attack - but I think half a pint of gin should do it.  And should also set me up nicely for the podcast too, although I shall do my utmost to avoid sitting on Jimmy Saville during the event.

Because...well.  You know.  I've got my marbles to think about.

Being Allowed Out in Public in Unsuitable Underwear - A Survivor's Tale

I'm sure you'll all be delighted to hear that no-one was injured, I kept my clothes on and that the nearest we came to a fatality was when my smile threatened to knock a bookcase over.

Oh, sorry, didn't I say?  I'm talking about yesterday's book signing, in which I performed two parts, that of manic author, stuffed with E-numbers and wearing unsuitable underwear, and also that of responsible business woman, keen to press her latest novel onto members of the public.  I think I managed to carry it off.  Although there was one unsightly moment when I became confused, threatened to press my unsuitable underwear on a passing businessman and had to be restrained behind the Two For One offers desk.

Anyway.  For those who missed it, this is what I looked like.

You can't see it, but there was a tin of Quality Street on the desk.  No, really, there was.  It only looks as though I'm sitting on it to prevent casual running thefts of the green triangles.  And don't stare at my cleavage for too long, you'll go blind.

This signing was undertaken (with the minimum of protective clothing) at the York branch of Waterstones, where they make unruly authors very nice cups of coffee and give them a really comfy chair.  I admit that I did forget to bring a pen, and entertained a brief idea of having to sign copies of my novel using my own spit and a soggy toffee-finger, but my lovely husband had thoughtfully shoved a biro into his pocket only that very morning, and I was able to write my name in the usual fashion.  Which, I think, may have disappointed some customers, but you can't have everything, can you.

And here's another one.

Just to prove the Quality Street thing.  And that there were actual customers in the shop, they didn't just pretend to let me in, whilst in reality closing the shop to real people.  There are two of them visible, probably plotting how to relieve me of my Strawberry Creams, although they may still be in shock, I fear I may have rushed up to them bearing bookmarks and incoherent gabble.  But at least my husband is smiling.

And I meant it about not staring at my cleavage.  You'll start to lose your v  ion and ever  hing w l  start t  l ok
all br ken up.  So d n't do   t.

Corsets and PVC underwear - the authors' guide to book signings

Rolls of barbed wire - check.  Aerial reconnaisance craft - check.  Full SAS troop at the ready on nearby buildings - check.

That's right, I'm doing a book signing.  And no-one's getting out of that shop without a copy of Please Don't Stop the Music, even the ones who only wandered in to see if their copy of 'Accountancy without Tears (Except for the Client's, Obviously)' was in stock.  I've got the doors set to Emergency Lock, the Science Fiction section will be swarming with My Men, there will be Stormtroopers in the Children's department and I've got a plant in the Gardening section.  I think I'm good to go.

Of course, if I wear full camouflage gear no-one will be able to see me, so I'm going for the full Author look (which any writer will confirm consists of corset, kilt and clogs, it's almost a uniform in fact).  If this doesn't make me noticeable enough (and it might not, I can blend in you know.  I didn't spend years in MI5...no, actually, come to think of it, I didn't spend years in MI5) I shall be wearing underwear almost unparalleled in its oddness.  Which may mean that I can't sit down, but that's not a bad thing, right?  Who wants their authors sitting down anyway?  People want their authors to look dynamic, go-getting sort of people, you wouldn't want to buy a book from someone who looks like they sit around in comfortable underwear all day, would you?  NO. You would rather purchase from someone who looks as if they suffer for their art, someone for whom spiked underpants and a gusset made of nylon is merely the tip of the iceberg of discomfort.

                                                I'm not promising anything, just saying.
So, it's been a busy week, all in all.  What with Please Don't Stop the Music being released on Tuesday and then having to spend the rest of the week getting four Army units into position and training up my friends in hand to hand combat; buying really nasty underwear and finding clogs to fit...well, you can imagine.

Anyway.  Waterstone's, York.  2pm Saturday 12th of February.  Make a note. It won't be pretty, but then, who is, in PVC underwear?