In front of me on the table is a box of books. Six North American copies of my book (which from what I can see refers to me as a mom not mum). Mine. Which I wrote. As I write these words I can’t stop grinning.

The kids dragged me out of the shower to answer the door this morning (they’re well trained not to answer it themselves but to scream ‘mum’s coming’ through the letterbox). We’re packing to go on a marathon camping trip round France and Spain and have been buying all sorts of random things that have been arriving daily so I took delivery and was about to stick the box on the sofa and get back in the shower before the washing machine kicked in and stole the hot water. Then I spotted the red logo. I’ve already had my monthly delivery (which isn’t a euphemism) so surely it couldn’t be…

Picture the dignified scene of the new author wrapped in a towel and frantically ripping open parcel tape while shampoo drips onto the hall floor if you like. There, isn’t that pretty, aren’t you glad you did? Now picture the squeals prompting two children to barely glance up from their Lego and Loom Bands (yes, we’re stuck with them too) and shrug at Mum making a fuss again.

“Look, my book!”

*grunt*

“My book! Cease your play and come marvel, my offspring.”

“Very nice. I like her dress,” says my daughter. “Can I read it?”

Errr. Maybe when you’re 25. Or 40. Certainly not seven, however good at blending phonemes you are.

So. Six books now. Another box of UK copies to come. Better find a very high shelf because she’s got that look in her eye and I don’t want to be responsible for what gets passed round the playground come September 3rd!

Seriously though, I will be sending out review copies so if you’re reading this and you have a blog, book group or Goodreads account and you’d like me to send you one drop me a line.