I’m starting to feel like you’re all getting bored of hearing me say thank you and would much rather I quit writing, got a job down the supermarket and stopped whining at you. Well, tough luck. There will almost certainly be more books, more whining and more thank yous. If you’re very lucky, there might also be a drink and a hug. Or just the drink, if you’d rather. Rowan Lawton, wonder-agent. Liane-Louise Smith, patience of a saint. Lynne Drew, Thalia Suzuma and Martha Ashby, how many ways are there for you to say ‘don’t worry, we’ll make it work’? I know this one was a bloody chore and you helped keep me sane during a very difficult time. Thanks, hugs and drinks aren’t enough. Soul of my firstborn? Soul of my firstborn it is. If I listed everyone who was owed hugs/alcohol at HarperCollins, they’d have to charge you another pound for the book so they’ll just have to take it verbally when I see them. So to speak. The last, ooh, let’s say nine months have been a serious effing challenge and without the support and love of my friends and family, you’d be reading this wherever you are right now while I sat rocking back and forth in a cave with very bad roots and no manicure to speak of.
