The air has taken on a distinctly autumnal feel and I have taken to my bed. I'm not ill enough to be off work, but certainly not firing on all cylinders.
But beneath the covers and this subdued exterior, I am turning cartwheels. I've just heard that one of my stories has been shortlisted for the Ilkley prize. I was quite willing to believe that they'd only had sixteen entries, until an eminent friend told me that the Ilkley Lit Fest is one of the UK's largest. On hearing this, the internal cartwheels are threatening to turn into external acrobatics. But here I am, home alone, with no one to help me celebrate. Where are my family when I need them?