Like Harry Styles at my front door,

Fame rocked up out of nowhere,

Landing a contract with a legendary agent

On my unsuspecting, pale and pudgy

Thighs with a destabilising splat.

 

Frost Glistening Like Manhattan,

A cheeky, racy Tinkerbell of a tale,

Wrenched me from my quiet Cornish corner,

From my decadent,

Top Secret daydreams,

Casting me into a shiny international

Frying pan where I writhed with sizzling mortification,

Nodding gormlessly at

Swashbuckling, tiger-toothed swaggerbraggers

Wink-whispering leave-it-all-up-to-me’s.

 

High on bidding wars and vertiginous advances,

On films rights and merchandising,

On Luxury Product Placement,

On All The Things,

They cooed and coaxed and commanded.

 

Deals were done,

Hands shaken,

Contracts signed,

Millions exchanged.

 

Just as the temperature receded,

Enabling me to scurry back to my quayside cottage in

Mousehole and put the kettle on,

Along came TikTok hysteria,

GoodReads squabbles,

Bookstagram deliberations.

 

There were also

Interviews galore,

And various award nominations.

 

I received umpteen television solicitations, too,

All of which I turned down,

Only to be foiled, once again,

When my Best Friend

Snuck Michael McIntyre and his entire camera crew

Into my home at witching hour.

 

Caught oinking the night away,

Wearing

Nothing

But

Nivea,

I sat up, looked directly into the camera and declared,

 

“There shall NOT be a sequel.”

 

That sequence went viral.