a one hundred and thirty third story...'norman's twenty third love letter'

Dear merciful (?) Rosalind:

My loving flame, my oil lamp, my stamp of approval – how are you now?

I take your silence as a sign that all is not well, and it breaks my heart to imagine.  How can I compensate you? (as an olive branch of sorts, I enclose a signed copy of Two Broken Hearts: A bullet from the past … and you might care to know Fritz has very rapidly been destroyed).

Yes, the whole damned fall-out from the now infamous book launch has been hard to deal with for me (I realise I didn’t get my hand mauled, but frankly, that would have been the least of my problems!).  Those nosey so-and-sos from the Islington Gazette naturally couldn’t resist the temptation to run an article on the affair, as well as rub my trunk in it, and the elephant dung continues to build around me in the form of impending legal action from UKIP. Moreover, I am worried that Collins will not support the book any further following my antics (even though my drinks were spiked).

That said, I did receive a kindly letter of support from Geoffrey (not Jeffrey) Archer, even if he has asked for his endorsement to be withdrawn from any future editions.

So, its all eyes to the skies as the first proper week of sales begins, and was cheered to see my local Waterstone’s with a copy of the book in stock; I asked the pock-marked assistant (acne?), and he said if it sells they will order another (and so on).  I suppose initial sales will be driven by reviews – my editor told me he wasn’t certain we’d get into LRB or TLS, which I thought spineless.  Perhaps I’ll become a best-seller on the Twitter!?

But enough of me?  What about you?  Do get in touch.

My latest thing is oil painting.  Bought myself an easel with part of my advance.  I’ve decided in the last few days, Ros, that if my writing career fails to take off (for reasons I anticipate may prove outside of my control – slovenly publishers, cheap-shot reviewers), I shall paint, and of course, my first inspiration will be (in your absence, and in the absence of Fritz and Bruno) Hampstead Heath (or Primrose Hill - a still life of London Zoo?). 

After all, there are scores of writers who have become artists, artists who have become writers – it’s an intrinsic progression whichever way you look at it.

Meanwhile, hoping dearly for your full recovery!

Penitentially,

Norman.

… from the cell of his (my) heart.