“Right,” says the doctor, removing his hand from the LTLP’s vagina. “Caesarian this afternoon.”

Things are all happening at once. First there is my sore toe, now there is a caesarian.

We go downstairs to have a coffee, her waddling, me limping. She turns to me when we sit down. “Are you SURE that your foot is no worse?”

“NonoI’msureitisnoworsehonest,” I mumble.

“Let me have a look,” she demands.

I make up some excuses as to why she cannot have a look, which stretch the definition of the word ‘weak.’ Eventually and reluctantly, I pull off my sock.

“For fuck’s sake!” she exclaims, an expression of horror on her face.

Earlier in the week, the second GP that had examined my foot had drawn a long black line, in special medicinal NHS Bic biro, around the red and blue creeping stealth that had enveloped the limb. I recall that she had, very firmly and distinctly, told me that if the infection continued to spread beyond the line, then I should go immediately to A&E to be put on intravenous drugs.

“Well I sort of did not want to worry you,” I say, not wanting to mention that I had assumed that the LTLP had got up in the middle of the night, erased the biro line, and redrawn it in a different place just to play a small practical joke on me.

“It’s going right up your fucking leg!” she replies.

0.00001 seconds later, we are in A&E, which is a bit of an unnecessary hurry as 2 hours and 0.00001 seconds later, a doctor appears. By this point, the gravity of the situation has dawned upon me and the LTLP is starting to cry. “I am due upstairs in ten minutes,” she begs. Meanwhile, I have gone all subdued and am feeling very low. The whole day is going horribly, horribly wrong.

“Actually – wasn’t there an article about you in the paper the other day?” asks the doctor. “You’re the writer?”

I beam broadly, This is the best day that there has ever been, ever.

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” snaps the LTLP, storming off towards the operating theatre.

Five minutes later, the doctor announces that he is not going to cut off my leg etc., and that I will be OK if I swallow the UK’s entire output of antibiotics for the next ten days and do not abuse my limb. He draws another line on my foot, although whether that is for medical reasons or because he wants to draw on the foot of a famous writer I do not know. If it is the former then there has been no further encroachment; if the latter then I will be writing to the GMC as this is not appropriate behaviour for a medical professional. I hop in to the maternity ward, smiling happily.

Everything goes well. I will probably not have time to write much for a bit, as my priority is to continue to offer the LTLP the high levels of moral support that she needs.

“So who do you want that signed for, then?” I enquire.

“Could you make this one to ‘Short Tony’s wife’s elder sister?” asks Short Tony.

I stare at him, and the pile of books that he has already swept into his bag. I have learnt quite a lot already in my capacity as author, and by far the most important lesson has been ‘if you write a book featuring real people, you should try to make them real people with very big families and circles of friends.’

“Here you go,” I offer, handing him the book. “Oh – by the way. There was an enthusiastic reader here who wanted to meet you. They were waiting for about half an hour but had to nip off to extend their parking ticket. They should be back any minute.”

Short Tony stares at me momentarily before sprinting in alarm towards the exit. I take a sip of coffee before moving on to the next signee.

*

Thank you everybody who came along – it was a lot of fun and a hugely humbling experience for me; I really did appreciate the effort you made and all your nice words. It was great to meet you all or – in one instance – your mother, whom you’d telephoned from Yorkshire to demand that she met me.

Having the bit between my teeth now, would anybody be interested if I did something like this elsewhere in the country? No promises, and it would depend on finding a suitable and willing bookshop – but it could be fun to arrange something. (If you happen to own a bookshop then drop me an email.)

*

If you’re Norfolk-based: I left a few signed copies with the shop in King’s Lynn; a couple of these are left. There are also copies at Norwich’s Royal Arcade Waterstone’s (the larger Norwich Waterstone’s has sold out; more copies are on order), and at the excellent Book Hive in the city.

Further afield, the brilliant and most lovely Bookseller Crow in South London has some signed copies (with exclusive limited edition chicken photographs); there is a list of UK Waterstone’s stores that have stock remaining here. If your local store’s not on that list then it’s sold out, which is a bit frustrating as my dad’s been trying to get one for my auntie Miriam and there’s hardly a copy left in the whole of Essex at present – obviously we are hoping that those shops will be re-ordering soon.

If you’re an independent bookseller that’s stocking ‘Sex and Bowls and Rock and Roll’ then email me and I’ll add your shop to the list.

Of course, you can still get it from Amazon. Oh yes – the Kindle version is out, as is the general e-book, and it’s in the iTunes store if you have an iPhone, iPad or iPod Touch. All the e-versions retail at two pounds something or other which seems sensible and reasonable for that format.

Commercial break almost over. The publishers seem very happy with the sales – so thank you for that if you’ve bought a copy. We have found it difficult to get a lot of formal publicity (I think the book falls between a couple of stools), so a plea – if you enjoyed the book and want to review it on your blog or on Amazon, then please do and I will be very chuffed. And if you’re a journalist, writer or blogger and you want to do an interview, piece, feature, Q&A, small couple of lines etc. then do get in touch.

*

Normal blog service will be resumed shortly, where I will be explaining the details of my disturbing telephone call with regards to my medical results.