Writing a novel resembles a journey with only the sketchiest of maps.

And feeling clever, I've always thought, is just a sigh away from being cheerful.

When they kissed she immediately felt his tongue, tensed and strong, pushing past her teeth, like some bully shouldering his way into a room. Entering her.

When we go on about the big things, the political situation, global warming, world poverty, it all looks really terrible, with nothing getting better, nothing to look forward to. But when I think small, closer in - you know, a girl I've just met, or this song we're going to do with Chas, or snowboarding next month, then it looks great. So this is going to be my motto - think small.

We know so little about each other. We lie mostly submerged, like ice floes, with our visible social selves projecting only cool and white.

It marked the beginning and, of course, an end. At that moment a chapter, no, a whole stage of my closed. Had I known, and had there been a spare second or two, I might have allowed myself a little nostalgia.

What reader wants to be told what attitude to strike?