During the downpour today, Stormboy and I pull into our driveway.
"Oh look!" I say. "A present for me." There is a parcel sticking out of the letterbox, but I am joking really because I'm not expecting any books this week and I think the parcel is probably for my mum or my sister.
I jump out into a puddly driveway, wriggle loose the parcel and some bills from the WW2 ammo box that stores our letters, and sit in the car. The windscreen wipers squeak back and forth.
The parcel is addressed to me.
"Stormboy, it's for me. Oh."
I tear away the bubble wrap. "Oh fuck. Oh boy. Far out, kid. Oh, Have a look at this."
The car is still running. I'm conscious that we are about to run out of fuel and that my payday is tomorrow, that we may break down before we get to the bank, but my sense of occasion overcomes any immediate economics.
It's the first (ever) copy of my first (ever) book. It's a real book. It's no longer a word document. It's absolutely bloody gorgeous. It's a real book. My book.