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Yesterday I attended a knitting workshop (learning to do intarsia and beading, in case you’re knitty too), and I sat next to a librarian.  Of course we fell to talking about books, and I mentioned “Fatal Forgery”.  Bless her, she was so excited about sitting next to an author – and she demanded to see my book, holding out her hand.  When I said that I don’t carry one with me, she was astonished.  “If I had written a book,” she said, “I would show everyone!”  And I do wonder whether she’s on the promotional nose with this attitude.  I should have had a copy for her to see, and then it would have been passed around the room to all those other knitters, and maybe one or two of them would have noted the title and bought the blasted thing.  So from now on, a copy of “Fatal Forgery” will be going everywhere with me.  I will use to to reserve my seat when I go off to the loo on the train.  I will let it drop from my handbag at opportune moments on the bus and tube.  And I will read it while waiting in queues, seemingly absorbed in its gripping pages.

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