This is a difficult blog to write, because I can't say what I want to. For the time being I have to keep Mum and zip it. It's a shame as I'm bursting to tell you the news. I won't even be able to drop hints just in case–you readers are a clever lot and might be able to guess if I give you a clue.
    I suppose I could tell you what hasn't happened. I haven't won the Booker Prize or suddenly shot to the top of the best-seller lists. No one's begged to buy the film rights to Discord's Child yet (I'm open to offers). ERNIE hasn't sent me a letter saying he loves me millions, and I haven't been commissioned to interview the Pope.
    I can tell you where I've been for the past couple of weeks: beautiful Cornwall, land of dramatic cliffs and hillsides, atmospheric moorland, white sand and rolling surf. I can tell you who I was with: my husband and dogs. And I can tell you what we were doing: making friends with lots of other dogs, searching for the perfect pasty (we found several, but the ones from Phelps' Bakery in Marazion are our favourites), testing the seats outside a selection of pubs to discover which ones were best proof against the wind and had the most spectacular views, and generally unwinding until, that is, I discovered... no, I can't say any more. I can't rely on my fingers not to get ahead of my brain and commit some unpardonable indiscretion.
    We'll all simply have to wait until next time.