(Not) giving the people what they want

It’s funny trying to write something this week, when all anybody wants me to talk about is the wedding I went to last Friday. Thee wedding. And yet I cannot talk about it, and nor do I much want to given it wasn’t my wedding and therefore not really my business to tell anyone about. But the pressure is immense. When How To Kill Your Family became a success, it felt like all people asked was when there’d be a sequel but I didn’t want to write a sequel! I wanted to write something new and escape being defined by one hit song. I didn’t want to be Chesney Hawkes, as nice as he seems (he played my Fresher’s week ball and I didn’t go because I was having raging panic attacks at the time and wisely decided not to collapse in front of the one and only, and yes I am pleased with this shoehorn), so I wrote What A Way To Go and everyone asked if it was a sequel anyway. A lot of the time, I was aware that I was disappointing people when I explained that it was a standalone story. But wait - it’s also about terrible rich people, I’d say feebly but it was too late, their eyes would tell me I’d let them down. 

So here I am, letting you down. I’m sorry! But my husband signed an NDA on behalf of both of us and I’m willing to bet it’s made with magic and reaches into my laptop and probably also my soul so I have little alternative than to withstand your annoyance. What I will say is that the weekend was basically a smorgasbord of all my biggest anxieties. It was my Gladiator challenge. It was a personalised version of Total Wipeout. I was jumping on massive red balls and swinging from giant ropes until I chafed.

Here, look at my anxiety checklist and quiver in neurotic solidarity: