OH. MY. WORD.

Can I get an Amen? I said CAN I GET AN AAAAAAAMEN? 

One more time now. Can I get an Amen with a side order of Hallelujah Praise The Lord?

*impromptu burst of excitable gospel singing and chanting ensues*

Ready?

I.

Have.

Got.

An.

Ageeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeent.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Let’s start from the beginning.
When I left you yesterday, I was on the train to London to meet my potential agent, Ali Gunn, and I was pooing my pants a bit. Okay, I was pooing my pants a lot; mainly because I was nervous, and slightly because I don’t like people being too close to me, and on public transport I always find that soiling oneself resolves the issue of people proximity most effectively.

Smelly, but having succeeded in not making conversation with strangers, I extracted myself from the delightful strip lighting of public transport and started schlepping down Kings Road in the centre of the capital.

If you don’t know Kings Road; it’s just this side of posh. And hey, it’s me talking, so you know the side I’m on about. I shuffled along in my Matalan sponsored attire, never fitting in, but never making any of the locals burst into actual tears of disgust.

I neared the venue of my interview and felt the time was right to don my Interview Shoes, so took great pleasure leaning on a lamp post outside a particularly snobbish example of  a 'You Can't Afford These Clothes Boutique' and whipping out my gnarled trotters, thus exposing the souls of my parched, peeling, bunioned extremities to their revolted, swiftly exiting customers. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman (if I imagined swapping her movie star good looks for my veruccas).

I turned up at the fancy restaurant early. Yep. You heard right. In fact, while we've time and it doesn't come up very often, why not hear it again? I turned up at the fancy restaurant....wait for it...wait for it....E.A.R.L.Y.

I was offered a sun glary patio table, and sat, adjusting my bra straps (which I don't think people liked in such a pretentious environment) and perused the menu for anything bordering on affordable. Would a glass of tap water be out of the question? No. I can't do that. I went for a  glass of Um Bongo, which, people definitely didn't take to.

Then I waited. God. What will she be like? Let me like her. Let her like me. And please God make sure she doesn't notice that these bloody bras straps keep slipping down.

Then. A tap on the shoulder.

A blonde, tanned, vibrant, punky looking vision of buoyant self confidence had swept in to the room. She immediately swapped the table little old loser me had been squinting at for the best spot in the restaurant. I dragged cases and bags and hold alls, containing alternative footwear and extra supplies of self esteem, blunderingly to the new table, managing to nudge a few ill placed elbows and run over a good assortment of absent minded toes as I oafishly traversed the floor.

Then we sat. We settled. And she spoke.

Turns out, she likes losers. Not all losers like. Just the especially pathetic ones, like me. They make her laugh. I make her laugh. And she thinks the crap I chunner on about could make lots of people laugh.
So I did just that - chunnered at her for two and a half hours, while drinking expensive rose wine and caring less and less about my bra straps.
She wants to be my agent. She will send my My Funny Mummy off to UK and US publishers from next Monday, three days before The Poop's first birthday.

She left.

I stumbled out of the restaurant and stood explaining to myself, out loud, on the edge of the pavement, what the Hell just happened.
And I'm still talking it through with myself now - and being sober seems to make the whole thing even less understandable.

I. HAVE. AN. AGENT.

Mental.