So, I’ve written a book.

Well, to be fair it’s nearly two-thirds done. It’s a bit like this blog, only bigger and more personal, though I’m not sure how much more personal you can get than discussing your boobs on the internet.

It’s a bit weird, writing about yourself.  Even though I do it every week with you. But you’re lovely, you are. And you’re not one to judge. If I’m honest, half the time I can’t remember what I’ve told you anyway.

There’s this woman who I don’t like. We’re kind of friends of friends of friends. I live in a small town, and everyone knows everyone, so it pays to be polite.

But I don’t like this woman. She’s mean-spirited and a gossip, the type that never has a nice word about anyone and is more than happy to share other people’s dirty laundry all over the street.

And I know we’re encouraged to see the best in everyone these days, judging people being the worst of social sins, but if this woman has a best side she keeps it very well hidden.

So, I’m in town, minding my own business thinking I might pop into Evans the bakers for a sneaky sausage roll when she appears before me.

‘Well hello,’ she beams even making a greeting sound like a threat. ‘No need to ask what you’ve been up to, now is there?’

I look at her puzzled, my mind stuck on warm flaky pastry, then thinking she’s going to congratulate me on my book deal.

‘I’ve been thinking about your little problem.’ She looks at me expectantly, while I try to stop my face from pulling that weird ‘what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about’ expression that my husband says I use all the time. (I may circle back to this at a later date.)

She’s chatting away about my house being full of clutter and how that must be a nightmare with the dog. I’m about to lose my shit and tell her to piss off, – suggesting my house is a mess, who the bloody hell does she think she is…when I realise she’s talking about the blog. She’s talking about a blog post I wrote a year ago about my kids’ stuff still being left at home.

So, she’s stood there chatting away, extolling the benefits of bicarb, and how only certain people’s houses smell, (er, who said my house smelled, misses?) Apparently, she could tell me some tales.

And all of a sudden it occurs to me that people I don’t like read my work.

I’m not talking about you obviously. You’re lovely. I love writing to you. I really love it when you comment and say hi.

But I am writing a book. And people I don’t like are potentially going to read it.

What’s that about?

I mean how can that even be allowed?

What if the dog walkers read this blog, I’d never be allowed down the field again.

What if people who don’t like Christmas read it, or people who are just being nosey, wondering what I had for my tea and how I got so up myself that I thought I could write about it? What if they read it?

What if this bloody woman reads my book?

Going around knowing stuff about me, telling people my house smells, (absolute fucking cheek of it!)

I haven’t thought this through. I mean who knew writing stuff on the internet meant anyone could take a look?

So, I’ve decided only nice people will be allowed to read my book.

Only people like you.

Only people who like chocolate and ready-salted crisps at the same time.

Only people who love Doctor Who and Pulp and walking the dog and gardening and the scent of roses in the late summer sun.

Ooh, only people who pick up their dog poo!

Only people who are nice to shop workers.

In fact, only people who are polite and say please and thank you.

And no litter droppers…

I may have to make a questionnaire, you might need to fill out a form, submitted in triplicate if you want to read my book.

I can see the publishers might find this difficult, but there has to be a way. I mean come on, let’s be reasonable.

I was sat there thinking all this while this woman was sharing her insights on the filthy homes of friends and neighbours alike.

‘Still, it’s nice isn’t it,’ the woman is beaming at me. ‘When they let people like you write books. Do they tell you what to write then, or do they help you think it up?’

See, I told you she was a cow.

She’s definitely not getting a signed copy.