Yes, sometimes, I do venture outside. While the stereotypical image of the novelist is one of a etiolated and tortured soul sitting in bedclothes while scribbling in a garret (amid fish paste sandwiches and Twix wrappers, naturally) I do like to get out and about.

 

Apart from all the important-meetings-in-London one has to attend as a writer (this is what I tell my husband, at any rate), it’s also really great to meet readers.

 

Some authors, obviously, really don’t like doing book signings. And who could blame them? Unless you are JK Rowling or Jamie Oliver, and enjoy fielding queues that extend to Alpha Centuri, book signings require two important things; a masochistic fondness for public humiliation and an ego the size of a sperm whale.

 

Happily, I have both (though the ego is equally endangered. Be gentle). They’re the combined legacy of several years working in sales, plus exposure to The Royalty Statement. And it’s just as well. Unless you’re famous, or your family and friends are in the proximity – hmm…strangely, these days, they’re invariably not – the term ‘your readers’ is the one you apply to all those unwary shoppers foolish enough to make eye contact with you/people who assume you’re a promotions girl giving away balloons/the entire staff – who feel sorry for you/someone looking for printer ink and who thinks you work there. But – and it’s a clincher of a but – these luckless folk might actually become your readers, just as long as you can persuade them to part with £6.99. And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Finding people to read what you’ve done. Plus (or so I reason – others may be more sane) if you’re proud of what you’ve written, then you shouldn’t be afraid of getting out there and saying so. Politely, of course. I am British, after all. So, dear reader, if you see me, please take pity, not flight. I’m not dangerous. Just zealous. Which is different.

 

When I’m not scaring strangers in bookshops, I  scare on a more specific basis; attending any event that'll have me, pretty much; be it library readings or writing class workshops. I've particularly enjoyed meeting continuing ed groups, one thing about adult learners in the creative writing field being that they're full of enthusiasm and don't scare that easy, which means they mostly do stay for the duration...

I also do a fair bit of Radio work. Doing radio is great because it doesn’t require grooming – a boon for the busy novelist-in-nightie. All it requires is the ability not to say rude words – it’s mostly live – coupled with the ability to twitter un-selfconsciously in an opinionated and reasonably well informed fashion about whatever subject happens your way. Happily, as you’ve heard, I am really rather good at that; what I sometimes (ok, often) lack in the well-informed department, I can usually counter in the opinionated department, and if all else fails, one of the other great joys of radio is that you can gurn in a panic-stricken way at the presenter, and no-one can see you doing it.

 

I fetch up on BBC Radio Wales on a regular basis – indeed the idea for my upcoming novel Barefoot in the Dark was inspired by my forays on the airwaves – and I enjoy it hugely. As well as grabbing any opportunity to get on and talk about my novels, I’m up for pretty much anything. And available at short notice…

 

Thus I do a periodic book review slot for the delicious Jamie Owen (Weekdays 11 – 12) and guest spots on other shows as required. Mostly, however, I'm a regular guest of the incomparably well-informed Patrick Hannan. He presents the Sunday morning show, Something Else, and I’ve been doing itsince its inception. I love doing radio. Can you hear me in Llandaff?

 

Television, however, is a much more demanding medium. Demanding mainly that you avoid stripes, spinach, under-eye bags and any delusions about your current weight. Of my various forays into TV exposure – mostly unsolicited and largely unremarkable – two remain burned into my hard drive. Most alarming was an appearance on ‘The Wrap’, a BBC arts programme when my first novel was published, the viewing of which was the pre-cursor to my having to dispense with the attractive pearlised gold eyeshadow that had been a staple of my make-up bag since 1974. I looked like Margaret Thatcher. No, really. And most depressing was my appearance on ‘On Show’ (another arts show…) where, having spent a day being interviewed by depressingly perfect (and, yes, uber-groomed) presenter, I tuned in to find the most erudite comment from the panel was that my novel ‘One Day, Someday’ was ‘crap’.* Still, I reasoned (sniffing), everyone’s entitled to their opinion; even a fifty something male academic who should be finding other things to read, frankly.

 

The phone rang seconds after the credits rolled. My friend, Nick. ‘Would you like him kneecapped?’ he enquired. I said no. Subject closed. I kept my dignity intact. And, happily, the reviewer kept his knees.

 

My only sought after appearance on National TV was when I dragged my daft-as-me friend Jane Wenham-Jones (yes, she's a novelist also) onto Ready Steady Cook back in 2001. Why? Ostensibly for a little light product placement (we both had books coming out) but as this was the BBC, that was essentially a no-no. So, really because, as with mountains, it was there. And we had a fine time. I cooked liver. I lost. Ainsley Harriott called me juicy. Jane said nipple before the watershed. And, yes. They really do do it all in twenty minutes.

 

I’d like to be on Loose Women now, please.

 

*Author’s note. One Day Someday’s other seventeen reviews were all most complimentary, you horrid man.