As I opened the front door this morning to leave for the office, the postman put a parcel in my hand. It was from John Lane, and it contained the first copy of my first book, "A Man from the North". Imagine that. I could hardly believe I was not dreaming. As a fact my heart was beating like the clappers and my breathing became shallow. I untied it hastily and after glancing at the cover gave it to Tertia to read. All day at the office I have been saying to myself: "I am an author". Tonight, with some ceremony, I picked the book up and indulged myself in the feel and smell of the thing. Then I looked through the tale, picking out my favourite bits. The style seemed better than I had hoped for. I am still pinching myself, but there it is, a tangible product of my heart and mind.I hope, trust and believe it is only the first of many.
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