I’m sitting on a fence here this afternoon looking at a fairground and wondering whether I would prefer to be spun round at great speed high in the air or tossed up and down while I was being spun round and round on the ground. Either of the options brings on my vertigo merely to think about it.
And of course I need hardly tell you, there’s a book at the bottom of it all. I finished book 31 at the end of August and sent it to my agent. Unfortunately my timing was very poor – even for me – for the dear girl was about to go off on her holiday to Italy, so here I am biting my nails to the quick waiting for her to come back to London and read my offering.
The trouble is, this time, I have written a book that could give considerable satisfaction to one group of my readers, but on the other hand it might well make another group recoil with revulsion.
Because – shush – it is about – double shush – politics. My anti-hero is fictional. But he is a type who has become very familiar to us in recent years, a politician who tells lies every time he opens his mouth. His whole life is a lie and his behaviour is appalling. He treats his various women very badly, abuses his son, treats his wife like a well dressed servant, is determined never to pay tax on any of the vast fortune he has amassed and is still amassing. He is in every way selfish, self-centred and self-satisfied. But because this is fiction and I can do what I like with a fictional character, he gets a terrible comeuppance. The big problem is whether his book will ever reach the point when it can see the light of printed day.
In the meantime I must bite what’s left of my nails, get on with book 32, and try to contain my soul in patience.