What did you say?

Sorry for the sparse blogging. I’ve had a deadline and have been under the weather, but today I got both of those sorted out. In particular, the doctor told me I’ve felt miserable and off balance because I have an ear infection. Thank you! That’s why people think I’ve been ignoring them. My hearing’s out of whack.

And now everything begins to make sense. At a Hodder & Stoughton event, I was sure fellow author Jojo Moyes asked me how many books I’ve now published. But she got wide-eyed when I told her: five. She said, are you serious? Five? Yes. My God, five? Yes, I repeated, thinking - is it really that surprising? How about you? Three, she said, and showed me a photo of her beautiful children. D’oh.

And my agent, Jonathan Pegg, looked unhappy when I described how a newspaper article had poked fun at another of his authors, David Mitchell. He said, was the article taking the mick? Yes, I said, the piece needled all the nominees on the shortlist. He shook his head. Poking fun at the Costa Book Award… it really is a well regarded prize. No, no, I clarified - I was talking about the Bad Sex in Fiction Award. He looked much relieved. He also - I think - told me that high in the Himalayas he had played tennis with the royal family of Bhutan. Jonny, if I imagined that, don’t correct me. It sounded dashing.

That leads us to today, when I sat glazed and feverish on the sofa, reduced to flipping endlessly between satellite news channels. In a churlish voice I began complaining about the weathercasters. He hunches. Her suit’s too shiny. Christ, that pink tie! Dude, when you get out of bed, brush your damned hair. And you - yes, you, biting your lip - rain is not sexy, not ever. Get a grip! I flipped to a new channel. Why are there nothing but weird weatherpeople on the tube?

The family stared at me and said, because they’re reporting a tornado in London.

Toto, get me my antibiotics.