It’s here and I’m excited and anxious. It feels somehow more personal than the first book. I hope people like it. It’s like I’ve been writing the book and putting it together in secret, quietly, without anyone noticing… a bit like jerking off, I guess, although when the not-boyfriend compared writing to masturbation the other day, I was ready to ask him to leave. If the sex wasn’t so great, and if he hadn’t repented (relented) after his faux pas, and if I wasn’t so hell-bent on not being alone again, I probably would have said: go.

The thing is, the not-boyfriend doesn’t know anything about the book, but it’s as if he could sense that writing and wanking were on my mind. I don’t know. He’s cute. Very cute. And we spent the afternoon at the British Museum looking at art and animal skins and lamps that relied on seal fat. Then we went for tea and scones in the upstairs café. Do you want to sit with the plebs (downstairs) or the posh people? I said. It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t really, because in the end we did what I wanted and went to the snooty cafe upstairs, where all the homosexuals were, which was nice.

My Life in Masturbation, Limited edition of 100 (and 5 Fridge Magnets)