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.
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.
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