I confess, deep down, like every other writer, I was secretly hoping that the sheer excellence of my book would propel discovery. As a rational person who quarantines her vast capacity for fantasy from life decisions, I repressed this secret hope, but it was there, buried under layers of common sense, realism, some token modesty and those tightly contained expectations.

For the past two weeks, I’ve had to use a laundrette. The last time I used a laundrette, Boris Yel’tsin was president of Russia. I’d sat at the large laundry-folding table writing out Russian verbs.

Getting a bike for Christmas in the mid-1970s was a big deal. Mine was a girl’s bike, with small wheels and step-through frame. My brother had a yellow easy rider with a long banana seat.

When the gynaecologist told me I had cancer and that I’d need at least two months off to recover from the inevitable hysterectomy, one of my reactions was relief. Two months off work! Two whole months!