Guest Blog by my Husband, due to being ILL!

I love my wife.  I struggle to think of many things which would impede that seriously or for long.

There are habits of hers however, which I find - curious.  Buying wrought iron furniture and carrying it large distances, because it's a bargain (so is a life without a broken back); folding over slices of pizza while eating them, or buying tins of weird things and adding them to ready made pizza (just eat it, properly).

And trying to get published.  For several years, this has been an ambition of my wife. But that's probably an understatement characteristic of my former profession: it's one of the most important things in her life, the yardstick by which she measures her success.  She wants her name on the cover.  It's important.

Now, I understand writing and the joy which arises from that process.  I love that she loves it.  I'm happy she enjoys it. But I dispute profoundly the significance of publication.

Is it really co-incidental that those famous for football or for their ability to remove their clothes and subsequent popularity with footballers, or for their former careers robbing banks or presenting TV programmes, also turn out to be capable of churning out publishable tomes?  

No.  Of course not.  It's published because someone - first the agent, then the publisher - believes (for whatever reason) that enough people will buy it to make them money.  Their `I absolutely love this', `I really have a special feeling about this' are code for that.  

Sometimes, of course, the reason they see the £ signs is literary merit; the correct judgement that this is a great book, that people will love. Sometimes the reasons are sheer nonsense; written for daft reasons, for daft people... and promoted by.... profit-maximising rational economic agents, flouncing around burnishing self-importance, their own un-published books and their English degrees.

So, why on earth - what possible reason - could there be - to pin your happiness on the whimsy of this deeply irritating group?

I don't know.  It baffles me.  I find it hard to articulate quite how little I care about these people or about what they love or don't love.  

It means nothing. They mean nothing - of any importance to me.  They are worth nothing to me.  But of course, my contempt means and is worth even less.  

Because of course, I'd buy into the nonsense bag and baggage, and simper along with the best, as soon as I saw my wife's name on the cover.