Because I can when I want...

Spot the difference?

But the hierarchy of it almost killed me....

Mina: These foolish things

Am feeling sentimental and hopeful old thing....

This one's for me. And for you.

Songs of Love

You know who you are, you two....

Stop press!

The newswires were buzzing, maternal reactions thus:

Corriere della Sera - Mamma M-Z: "He's grounded for the next 50 years."

Bloomberg - La Titz: "Götterdämmerung!"

The Church Times - Mommy V: "I taught her everything she knows..."

Oh, Heathcliff!

Oh! The life of a spinster lady novelist.

Returning from an epic run on the Heath in a last-ditch attempt to firm up thighs before impending bikini debut on Caribbean beach my thoughts naturally turn to those other writerly vicar's daughters, the Brontes.

Pulling an edition of the girls' letters from my bookshelves, I find an account of a shopping trip. Charlotte reported it thus:

'Tempted by the colours of some beautiful silks, I had not the spirit nor the means to launch out at the rate of five shillings per yard, and went and bought a black silk at three shillings after all. I rather regret this.'

Emily, on the other hand chose a fabric 'patterned with lilac thunder and lightning, to the scarcly concealed horror of her more sober companions.'

The crème de la crème of Strong Female Leads

Imagine, if you will, my delight when, idly flicking through the latest edition of Têtu (the iconic French fag-mag, beloved of my various partners in crime for its, er, unique blend of existential Gallic angst and men with their bits out), I came across the following article. For the benefit of my non-European readers I shall translate:

The American actress Julianne Moore will be playing a lesbian novelist in Rebecca Miller’s next film, 'The Private Lives of Pippa Lee'. Pippa Lee (Robin Wright Penn), a woman ditched by her husband for a younger woman (Winona Ryder) begins to explore her buried sensuality in the company of Julianne Moore. Filming will begin next April.

I predict a world premiere in the countryside. I predict lashings of booze and Gauloise Blonde Légères, specially imported via Tot Homage Trip to Paris. I predict torrents of tears from the Bad Lesbians. I predict full attention from the heterosexual American boys. I predict mild tutting from the Italian homosexuals who shall - kindly but firmly - put to better use making dinner for the group. I predict Le Duc reclining in pleasure on the sofa, flanked by his bitches.

[Commercial break for moment of reverie]

It really doesn’t get any better. Arthur Miller’s daughter, wife of Daniel Day Lewis, (and Artiste in Her Own Right, natch) joins the ranks of the BLs in top totty celluloid triumph. And Winona, to boot. Tickets for that red sofa available to the highest bidder.

At last

I am pleased to be able to inform you, dear readers, that all those years of tears and traumas are officially at an end. AGC is to be published in March 2009.

Let me record for posterity the past 24 hours.

11.00: Stumble about the changing rooms of various clothing emporiums wondering what one should wear for a first meeting with publishers, cursing ricotta texture of thighs and wondering how exactly I got those bruises.

2.15: Give up, eat egg sandwich and return home, resolving to borrow clothes from fashion-forward friend for whom I am catsitting.

2.30: Phonecall from agent requesting author photo. I tell her I haven’t got any. She says ‘aren’t there some nice ones of you in Tuscany?’ I reply bleakly that I am drunk in all of them. She thinks I am joking.

2.45: Frenzied emailing to friends requesting photos. They kindly oblige. I am drunk in all of them.

4.00: Emergency trip to reflexologist who tells me about a new healing technique called breast massage.

4.10: Pass out under her expert hands.

19.00: Shrink appointment. Bang on about body image issues for the whole hour.

22.00: Emergency photo-session with the endlessly patient Beth. She handles me beautifully. Struggle with intermittent flash. End up jumping in and out of light on doorstep to keep it on long enough for her to take snaps.

Midnight: Cab back to catsitting house. Taxi driver says ‘You look tired. Have you been with your boyfriend. Eh? Eh?’ I tell him no. He says ‘How can I get more intimate with you?’

24.15: Extricate myself from cab, paying needlessly large tip to get rid of him.

24.30: Smoke fag and drink small sherry in garden.

1.00: Attempt sleep. Fail.

7.00: Wake to find that cat has left dead mouse outside my bedroom door. Not sure whether or not this is meant as gift or punishment but suspect the latter.

7.10: Retch violently in sink.

9.30: Shrug on mahvellous cream Marc Jacobs jacket over black frock. Feel almost like Jackie Collins.

9.45: Brief identity crisis.

11.00: Meeting with publishers in fabulous Holland Park mansion. Orchids everywhere. Books in profusion. Ushered into a room by editor, sweating lightly (me not her). Almost trip over chair. Blush. Blush deeper as eight other people arrive, from the big boss to the PR person. They all say incredibly nice things about the book. We talk about covers. Feel somewhat overwhelmed and stare at the floor.

11.30: Someone asks ‘so what was the inspiration for the book?’ Stammer. ‘Er, I like old ladies…’

12.00. They tell me that I shall be their main news item at the London Book Fair next week. They’re taking it to the US the week after. They think I could be big in Australia (?). They ask me to approve the following announcement:

‘A guilty secret about a passionate war-time friendship is dangled just beyond the reader’s grasp, right to the very end of Lady V’s tautly-plotted debut, AGC. Nora is a girl of twelve when the war breaks out and she is evacuated to rural Kent to stay with the Rivers family. As the spitfires roar overhead, Nora and Grace grow as close as sisters – and then closer still. But what happens next will gnaw away at Nora for the rest of her life, and it is only decades later – when she is certain that the end is near – that she can begin to tell her story…. An atmospheric coming-of-age novel that combines sustained intrigue within a contemporary narrative and a powerfully filmic evocation of 1940s Kent and bomb-battered London, the novel has already excited considerable pre-fair interest among book and film scouts. US and translation rights are on offer right now.’

12.05: Agree to everything.

12.30: Leave the offices after being kissed by everyone. Blush again.

12.32: Agent and I turn the corner and give an unladylike squeal.

12.35: Agent goes off to next meeting. I light up fag. When no-one is about, I do a little dance.

NB. The above picture is not one of Beth’s masterpieces. It is of course, my mentor, Lady B, who wrote 534 books in her lifetime, mostly dictated from her pink chaise longue, whilst nibbling petit fours.