When I was 18, I knew that, one day, I'd be famous.
I knew that by the time I should've been 40, I would be gloriously dead, having written a bestselling novel of great literary standing. And in the days when a WAG was still the name for a person who made facetious jokes, I intended to find myself a world-ranking footballer with a bit of a brain and really good legs.
So how the heck did someone as young as me get to be 48? With a published novel that sank without a trace and without a bean to my name, let alone a footballer to share my bed. Instead, that space is filled with knitting needles and yarns and all sorts of cliches to which all ageing aunts are prone.
I knew that by the time I should've been 40, I would be gloriously dead, having written a bestselling novel of great literary standing. And in the days when a WAG was still the name for a person who made facetious jokes, I intended to find myself a world-ranking footballer with a bit of a brain and really good legs.
So how the heck did someone as young as me get to be 48? With a published novel that sank without a trace and without a bean to my name, let alone a footballer to share my bed. Instead, that space is filled with knitting needles and yarns and all sorts of cliches to which all ageing aunts are prone.
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