I’m in the middle of writing my second novel – working title Eight Messengers, although one of the messengers is currently refusing to play ball, so it may well turn into Seven Messengers. Then, of course, my agent and my editors will start wading in, and it could become Four Messengers. And by the time we’ve done several rounds of structural, line and copy edits, it’ll be The Lone Messenger. Or something else entirely.
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I have an appointment at the Breast Cancer Clinic tomorrow morning. I go three times a year; once for a mammogram, once for an ultrasound, and once for blood tests. Tomorrow I have a mammogram, which feels much like having what remains of your boobs shoved into a Breville sandwich toaster, then waiting for what seems like hours while the chefs work out if there’s a fly trapped in there.
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One of the most exciting moments of being an author is receiving an advance proof copy of the book you’ve sweated blood and tears over for months, or years even. For me, it’s even more thrilling because of the name on the spine, and on the top of every left-hand page throughout: Clare Pooley. My maiden name. The name I thought I’d lost. The person I’d temporarily mislaid.
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This year’s most talked about female headliner at Glastonbury was no millennial. She was 51 year-old Kylie Minogue, who I first came across more than thirty years ago when she sported mechanics overalls and a perm as Charlene in Neighbours.
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