Blisters and sales figures

I’ve hung up my Prada wedges. The launch party is over. I’d been half expecting a vaguely traumatic affair, much like a wedding, but it was actually huge fun. Friends and journos packed out London's Proud Gallery, champagne was glugged, cupcakes eaten and books sold. The next morning one of my friends texted me to say she’d found a cupcake crushed into the pocket of her best coat and had no recollection of how it got there. The sign of a good party, no?

With the party milestone over, I can now succumb fully to Amazonitis, an affliction caused by scanning Amazon’s hourly-updated sales lists to discover the commercial fate of one’s book. Symptoms include heart palpitations, severe impairment of concentration and RSI of the mouse clicking index finger. Today 88! Three hours later, it’s 155. Is someone buying books, then returning them? 77. Oh right, that will be my mother’s friends then. 280! Oh God, it’s all over. No, wait. I better just double check that...