I had a decidedly full schedule yesterday. I could tell that because at lunchtime - instead of downing sausage, peas & mash with lashings of gravy, four pints of Speckled Hen ale & two Ecstasy tablets and settling down in front of the television to watch Cash In The Attic, Neighbours, Home And Away and Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple and then retiring to my pit for an hour’s doze before tea – I had to forgo the television and trudge off to the train & thence to Clapham Junction, this upon an errand for a chum who is helping promote my book.

My relationship with said tome has changed subtly since it first arrived in its full, published, glory.

On the one hand, it has very much become – as my chum immediately hailed it when I finally called him to announce I had reached the finishing line – a ‘product’. I don’t know if you can relate to this but, when I flick through its pages, I feel almost as detached as if I’m reading something written by someone else. Of necessity I am currently spending much of my time making up packages to send copies off to people I owe, or know, or have been asked to oblige, and in this task I feel no more ‘engaged’ than if I was a warehouse manager sending out boxes of plastic toys or toiletries.

Then, on the other, I confess I am prey to an almost childish (or ‘child-like’?) practice. By habit I keep my ‘working’ copy of the book, sadly now with its typos & margins marked by pen, on the side-table beside my sofa. Just occasionally, after I have lodged a new batch of copies at the Post Office, I return home and immediately pick it up … trying to conjure the scene as a specific recipient (whether perhaps friend or rugby journalist) opens up the package and holds the book for the first time … and wondering what they will make of it. Hoping they’ll be impressed of course, but also nervous that they won’t be. Is this pathetic? Is it a crime? Hopefully it’s just normal.

I don’t consider myself an author, but one thing I will say is that – rather like boxers – appreciate what they do or not, you have to admire them. With every book that they publish they’re putting their cojones on the line, even if they’re female.

I imagine that regularly, at hundreds of polite society dinner parties all over the land, people are asking “Have you read the new [insert the name of your favourite popular or highly-regarded author here]?” and their companions are responding “Yes, but it’s not as good as their last one” … or “I’ve heard it’s crap …” or even “A monkey left with a typewriter could do better …”. These comments are made, of course, by people who couldn’t write for toffee e.g. parasitic professionals such as lawyers or accountants, or possibly feather-bedded Ministry of Defence civil servants who have spent the last two years procuring a £37 billion pair of aircraft carriers that, when delivered, will only travel around in circles because they bought the wrong steering system or become floating fire hazards if anyone on board lights a cigarette.

I recall a telling exchange I once had as a student. I had retired to a Leicester student union bar with my editorial colleagues after producing the first edition of a brand new campus magazine. To put no finer point on it, after all the hard work & effort expended, we were decidedly pleased with the result. My editorial pride was then challenged by a scruffy, thatch-haired, little oik who sidled over to our group. I knew him slightly and I suspect ‘mutual dislike’ would just about describe our (non) relationship.

“Hi …,” he opened, “… I just wanted to tell you that I think your magazine is a pile of shit.”

“That’s all right, mate …” I replied, drawing myself to my fullest, condescending, height, “ … we’re not catering for mental defectives …”

Quick as a flash he came back with “Well, how come you’re the editor then?”

I didn’t have an answer to that.