July's first post was all about a ghastly work meeting and the Harrods sale. It seems like they both took place a lifetime ago. I suppose that's what it is like when the most recent events in our lives are so unexpected they make those which were duly planned fade into a little cloud of nothingness. July was much more than I expected; it brought, not only William's £ 1800 hospital stunt, but also the promise of a proper agent.
It's a funny one this. Day-dreaming about getting the attention of an agent in the past usually brought fist-pumping visions of foreshadowed success to my absinthe-infused mind. I realised then, as I do now, that proceeding with caution is the best course of action on this (and many other) life development, so much so that, when I received an email indicating that, yes, I may well be with my toes through an agent's door, I was left wondering whether it was a joke and if it is a joke where is the punchline?
My potential agent wrote to me last week telling me not to rush to send her anything further, since she is off judging a literary prize and then on hols for two weeks. It worked out better this way; I just cannot imagine having been able to write anything other than mails about William during these past, emotionally over-the-top, five days. Now that the boy is recuperating, and another two rejection letters have fallen through the door, I think it is time to re-focus on what would be the greatest birthday present ever: not a stick-like figure after all, but a bona fide agent.
