Summer, novels and cellulite

It’s difficult enough to motivate myself when it’s cold and there’s no other option but to stay inside and work, but all this lovely sunshine is creating problems for my deadlines. I mean, I could work at an outdoor table, if there was an outlet for my laptop. I could bring a spare battery for my laptop, I suppose, but once I’ve loaded by bag with pastries, er . . . suncream, sunglasses and newspaper, it’s so heavy that I need one of those ditty little Ikea trolleys to drag it around. By the way, in case you are wondering, I am one of those people who buy a coffee and sit in a café, then sneakily consume cheaper, taster fare from elsewhere where the baristas aren’t looking. Come on, don’t judge me - I work in publishing, for god’s sake! Besides, last I looked, macaroons et al are in short supply at those generic cafés around London.
So, with the Marrying Out of Money deadline looming, I need someone to come and tie me to a desk, preferably in a dark closet with no tempting sunshine to distract me.
And before I get a mail from that guy with hair lip, limp and questionable morals, not you! But I am available for a date at that café by the Serpentine if you’re paying.

A taste of the new

For all of those who have been asking about Marrying Out of Money via Prospera's Twitter and website, here is a snippet of what it's all about. Only a snippet, mind you, because thanks to my rubbish computer abilities, that's pretty much all I have.

Okay, it all starts with a rich coffee heiress questioning the dedication of her less than erudite, tree-hugging boyfriend, who is a member rockband 4BY4. The social climbing mother of said heiress decides that enough is enough, and hooks up with a poverty-stricken aristocrat to arrange a marriage between the heiress and a snotty, outrageously good-looking Harry Partington - 40th in line to the throne. Not surprisingly, for both parties, it's hate on sight. Still desperately in love with the rockstar, but with her beloved father ill and wanting nothing more that to see her married, the heiress sets about making herself so repulsive that the aristocrats decide a future on a derelict council estate is preferable to having her as a daughter-in-law. Of course, nothing goes according to plan.

ME, MYSELF AND NICKY

So, as most of you may suspect, my true identity is hidden from the world-at-large. The reason, of course, is that should the world-at-large (read: those with little or no sense of humour) discover my serious daily persona actually hides a slightly deranged cake-eating chick-lit author, me and my reasonably large rear end will become too-well acquainted with a Jools'-style cardboard box in which to live. Well, okay, I probably won't get booted into a box, but certain people I come into contact with on a daily basis may be less than impressed with my schizo tendencies.

Having said all that, it is kind of nice living a double life, particularly as I get to admit to my hero worship of sugar without it affecting any stuffy board meetings. God, I hate those meetings. The ones where they lay out half-a-dozen tasty little morsels but every single woman in the room refuses one least she looks like a porker just released from a trough. Now, you'd think I would just tuck in, wouldn't you (given I have no self-control when it comes to pastries), but no, when I am not Nicky, I am serious, sensible, and even manage to keep the decibels on my stomach rumbles to a level only a dog could hear.

Luckily, I am becoming adapt at being Nicky for a good portion of the day now. Before work, lunch, after work. It's amazing how many cafes will let you linger over one cappuccino for hours. Well one coffee and four cupcakes, but you get the point.

So, that's it for Nicky now. Time to head back to tedium and statistics. I'll write again soon. But first, must really spend some time on Marrying Out of Money! Happy eating,

N.