This feels like taking off my clothes in public - revealing and a fright for all concerned. Possibly because, despite having been a journalist for twenty years and an author for ten, I've never written a blog. So please excuse me while I get used to it - I'm sure soon enough I'll be a virtual nudist. I'm going to keep the first post brief (and also, in the interest of dignity, end the naked metaphor now.)

My agent - immediately that makes me sound unpleasant so let's change that to my mother - is urging me to mention that my latest novel is about to be published in the US. I don't even want to think about what that means in stripping terms. Anyway, it's called Rich Again and it's a big juicy tale about a wealthy, dysfunctional family - terrible things happen to them, and they don't know why. Frankly, most of their bad luck is of their own making, but not all...

It was fun to write. The characters start out jittery, and then, you keep thinking, keep writing and one fine day they become real. In Rich Again I had to kill someone off - I felt lousy. It's a serious matter, murdering a character. If you put an end to the wrong one, it can ruin the reading experience; it's like a personal betrayal.

Strictly for authenticity, I had to immerse myself in the lifestyle of the super rich. There was one particular dinner party hosted by an heiress. I bought a bottle of good wine and when we were introduced, I tried to hand it to her - she wafted past and refused to make eye contact. So I gave it to one of the uniformed maids. I'm sure many billionaires are polite, but she wasn't one of them. 

Ah. My husband has just looked over my shoulder and said 'Bloody hell, that's long.' I think that might be my signal to end it there....