Wits' End Flashback

I was ankle-deep in pizza boxes and seventeen squealing six-year-olds at Matilda’s ‘pyjama and pizza non-sleepover’ birthday party when the commissioning editor of Lothian Books phoned.

‘Guess what?’ she yelled (she had to – the kids were playing musical statues to Nikki Webster’s ‘Strawberry Kisses’).

‘Sorry Teresa, I can’t hear you ... hang on, I’m wading through the family room ... I’ve strung silver cardboard stars from the ceiling with fishing line – it’s like running the gauntlet...’

‘Gosh, Emma – you don’t exaggerate, do you?’

Unfortunately not, most of the time. I closed the door of the study to muffle the noise. ‘That’s better. Sorry about that! You were saying?’

‘We want to publish your book!’

The door burst open. ‘Mummy! Jasmine just spilled red creaming soda all over your brand new rug!’

‘That’s fantastic!...’ I squealed.

‘And now she’s tramping in it!’

‘Are you serious? I can’t tell you how wonderful this is!’

‘But Mummy, you love that rug! And Ashleigh just threw the fit-ball at the piano ...’

‘Ah – Emma,’ Teresa interrupted, ‘do you think you should get back to the party?’

The what?

I floated back into the family room and presided over affairs like the elated person I’d suddenly morphed into because of six simple words: We want to publish your book!