Under the Duvet
Shoes, Reviews, Having the Blues, Builders, Babies, Families and Other Calamities
Excerpt
Paperback Writher
When people ask me what I do for a crust and I tell them that I'm a novelist, they immediately assume that my life is a nonstop carousel of limos, television appearances, hairdos, devoted fans, stalkers and all the glitzy paraphernalia of being a public figure.
It's time to set the record straight.
I write alone, in a darkened bedroom, wearing my pj's, eating bananas, my laptop on a pillow in front of me. Occasionally - it usually coincides with promoting a book - I am led, blinking, into the daylight, and when I try to talk to people, discover that I'm not able to, that I've become completely desocialized. And as for being mobbed by adoring fans - I'm never recognized. Once I thought I was, but I was mistaken. I was in a shoe shop (where else?), and when I asked one of the girls if she had any of these sixteen shoes in my size, she looked at me, put her hand on her chest and gave a little gasp. "It's you!" she declared.
It is, I thought, thrilled to the marrow. It is me - I'm famous!
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