The waiting room is empty.

This is reassuring. I have been plucking up the courage to fix an appointment for some time, and although I believe in theory that being open and honest etc. about ‘embarrassing conditions’ is the best way all round, when it comes down to it what I really believe is that this should be the case for everybody else in the entire world except me. I rootle through the pile of lifestyle magazines before I come across a Farmers’ Weekly, which I proceed to leaf through idly.

I am distracted however, and even news of beet drilling and developments in the tractor industry cannot put my mind at ease. Truth be told, I am a little nervous about seeing the Doctor. I have – thankfully – been a healthy individual in general throughout my life, if you discount my fatness, the odd migraine and my arse problem, so it is a little sobering to find myself in this situation.

I hear a familiar voice talking to the receptionist. John Twonil walks into the waiting area.

“Hello!” he exclaims. “What are you in here for then?”

I pause. I really have no wish to talk about things just yet. But I will have to talk to people sooner or later, and it might be good to share the burden a little with somebody who will understand.

I tell John Twonil the situation.

“Mpphhhhhhhhahahahahahahahaha!!!” he splutters, looking at me with a goggle-eyed expression. “Hohohohoheheheheheeheeeee!!!” He really is the most immature man, especially considering his age. I gaze at him sternly as he lifts himself up off the carpet.

“It is not at all funny,” I scold, maintaining my own dignity. “I am…”

“Hello you!” interrupts the Doctor, poking his head round the door. “You coming in then?”

I replace the magazine on the pile. “Yes,” I reply.

I back away in some concern. All I was after was some semi-skimmed milk.

The Village Shop Lady storms out through the door. I follow at a safe distance. There is a thunderous silence as she examines the new sign, a propped-up one that sits on the roadside to attract custom.

After a while I decide I should speak. “I’m sorry – I thought somebody would have already pointed it out.”

She glares at me and my milk.

“‘Pastries’ – you see – it doesn’t have an extra ‘e’ in the middle,” I say.

“I’m going to kill him,” she mutters again. If there is any reassurance in that sentence, it is that she is speaking of a third party (as yet unknown.) However her expression does little to allay my concern. There appears to be a risk that she may be looking for a surrogate person to kill.

“I should pay for my milk now,” I offer, in a soothing calm-down type voice.

We head back to the shop. “The other thing,” I mention, “is that where the sign talks about the ‘deli,’ actually – well, um, well he has done it like in the city in India.” I make sure to continue using my soothing voice so that this cannot possibly upset her any more.

“What?!? I’m going to kill him!!!” she shouts, running back to the sign.

I stand there with my semi-skimmed milk. I am in a bit of a hurry, as there is some important media work to do when I get home. But at least I am not a signwriter in fear of my life.

A couple of dates for your private secret diaries…

If you’re in or around Norfolk:

I’ll be at Waterstone’s, King’s Lynn on Saturday 7 August between 11.00-1.00 , signing books and generally saying ‘hullo’ to people. I know it’s a big county – but if you’re within striking distance then do pop in and introduce yourself. The shop’s in Norfolk Street, right in the town centre.

Even if you’ve already bought a book, pop in anyway and buy somebody else’s book, and I’ll sign that instead. My mother-in-law has already embarrassed me outside the shop by shouting ‘looklooklook that is your book in the window oh lord and a thing with your name on and everything look look everybody why are you running away?’

If you’re in or around London:

I’ll be at the George in Great Portland Street on Saturday 24 July from 3pm onwards. (Lord! Next Saturday! Details and map here.) This is not a signing books thing; nor is it a big deal sort of do; it is just me going to the pub. There will hopefully be some other interesting bloggers/Private Secret Diary readers/friends of mine there as well. The chickens cannot make it.

If you’re in the area and want to come in, say ‘hullo’ and have a pint then please do! Bring a friend if intimidated. Of course also I will sign anything you want, probably with greater and greater enthusiasm as the afternoon wears on. I don’t get out much.

Enjoy your weekends and I hope to see you there…

JonnyB

It is the Tea Room Lady. It is nice to hear from her. We chat for a short while before she gets to her point.

“What are you doing on Tuesday night?” she demands.

This is good. Earlier in the year I was forced to cancel a couple of dinner engagements with the Tea Room Lady. I am free however on Tuesday night.

“Excellent,” she replies. “We are having a do for tourism professionals and need some musical accompaniment. The guitar player has dropped out. Be there at seven.”

I say words like ‘but’ and ‘I do not really’ a lot, but she has gone, so I ring her back.

“This is so exactly not my sort of thing,” I protest inarticulately.

“Nonsense,” she scolds. “You are a very good guitar player, so you have said. Sally will be singing, so you just need to sit there and play some chords.”

I raise my voice in alarm. “Isn’t Sally the middle-aged lady who tells olde time stories about life in agricultural communities gone by?” I gibber.

“No you idiot, she is a proper singer and works part-time in the tea rooms. You will be performing with Sally’s trio.”

This is reassuring. If there is a trio then I will be able to hide at the back. “Who’s the trio?”

“Well, as I said, the guitarist dropped out, so there is Sally and you.”

I arrive at the gig at the appointed time, having snatched a half-hour rehearsal to work out that we don’t know many songs and that my Leonard Cohen tribute set would be inappropriate for the circumstances. A throng of tourism professionals mill about in their throngdom, searching for ideas as to how to improve the visitor experience at their attractions, perhaps with some sophisticated music. We play them a 25-minute version of ‘Moondance’ followed by a 40-minute version of ‘Can’t Buy Me Love.’ Sally’s keyboard player arrives at the last minute, having agreed to bolster the sound. He is excellent. The music is excellent. The crowd of tourism professionals appreciate our excellence. This is the big time once more!!!

“Here you go – I’ll pay you in bread,” says the Tea Shop Lady, handing over a big bag of bread rolls and some loaves. “Can you stay for a second set? If so, I will give you some cheese.”

I stay for a second set. We play a one-hour-twenty-minute version of ‘Just the Two of Us.’ I am paid some cheese. It is good to be back in the music business again.

I circle the venue warily.

The whole thing is intimidating. It is hosted by my important publishers. They have invited all their authors to a glittering party. Plus me, who is an idiot who has written a book.

I study the invitation. It has silver writing and is on expensive card. They have hired the V&A Museum for the night. I take a deep breath and walk in.

“Hello,” says the lady on the door. “Welcome to our party for proper authors, and not just idiots who have written a book. There are name badges here, in alphabetical order. And you are…?”

I point her towards my name badge, which is sitting next to Lord Mandelson’s. Adopting an air of ‘I am completely and utterly comfortable in these surroundings and not at all overawed by the circumstances, in fact I am quite cool about the whole thing yes I am,” I wonder if it would spoil the effect should I take out my camera phone and photograph the name badges.

I enter the arena of party. I do not know many authors by sight, and having previously had a bad dream in which I handed my coat to VS Naipaul to check in, I keep my jacket on. I meander around Whitbread prize winners, editors of The Times, Sue Lawley etc., before joining a group of authors who turn out to be extremely nice and hospitable people.

“OMG OMG!” says one of them, pointing to an elderly lady. “That is Judith Kerr over there!”

I have heard of Judith Kerr, legendary 87 year-old author of ‘The Tiger Who Came to Tea.’ It is a book that I loved when I was a child, and my companion is clearly also a fan. I do not mention that I am convinced that the book is an allegory, and is about a lady who runs a brothel at home. However, looking at kindly Judith Kerr, 87 year-old author of ‘The Tiger Who Came to Tea,’ I start to suspect that I might be reading too much into it. She turns to potter carefully away.

“I MUST go and say hello and tell her how much her book meant to me,” cries my fellow author, leaving the canapés and breaking into a sprint. I chat to somebody else, who has written some very funny stuff about Father Christmas. In the background, Judith Kerr, 87 year-old author of ‘The Tiger Who Came to Tea,’ is rugby-tackled to the ground.

“Can I have your attention please?” exclaims the party host, who makes a speech thanking everybody for coming. At one point she announces that, in a rare event, she is going to single out one particular author for praise. I get all flustered about this, but it turns out that she is talking about the Booker prize winner, which is a bit disappointing. There is a shriek in the background, as somebody administers a paralysing Vulcan death grip to escaping Judith Kerr, 87 year-old author of ‘The Tiger Who Came to Tea.’ I drink lots more champagne before leaving.

Welcome to my new world.