Well that's 4 days back at work and I think the top prize for 'Oh you're back' has to go to the bloke who cornered me by the ho beverage machine and said, "Oh right... Back at work, eh? Hmmmmm, books not going so well then?"
"Err..." says I, "Actually, they're doing pretty well."
"Ah." Some sage nodding and sucking of teeth. "So... Second book out yet?"
Me: "Yes, May this year."
"hmmm..." thoughtful pause, "Second one not doing as well as the first then?"
Ah yes, back to work, gotta love it. There seems to be a strange thing in the UK where if you try to do something, you're getting ideas above your station and need to be taken down a peg or two. Preferably with a big pointy stick. A big pointy stick with dog poop on the end. That'll bloody teach you...
And I always feel like such a tit saying stuff like, "Oh, well, yah, it's like totally a Sunday Times bestseller..." and "Oh, wow man, like completely won the Barry for best first novel..." and "Huh, did I mention it was in its fifth edition...?" and "Well, Bernard Cornwell said to me..."
Ah well. In writing news I've done bugger all but think since last Saturday, but things are stirring. The only trouble is the impending surgery which dreads the living pants off me. Oh dear God, no!