The bottle of sparkly pear deadliness, what is a Boop? and life inside yer mum's tummy...

What a massive week. My publisher arrives late Sunday. And we crack open a few beers. Then we crack open a few more. By Midnight we have progressed to the really dodgy bottle of red we got for free with our last take-away curry. The label informs me that it is a red wine - after that - yer on yer own.

Perhaps it is made from dingleberry? Or the crushed bodies of a thousand beetles? It tastes sweet - cough syrup with a kick. But it's either that or a bottle of sparkling pear wine that's been sitting in the garage fridge for the last five years - waiting forlornly for a chance to be drunk. The wallflower of the vineyard. Short of every other bottle of wine spontaneously vaporising across the known universe - this baby is gonna remain firmly undrunk. But...never say never...so there it remains. I'll keep you posted on that one - out there somewhere is a date with destiny - I can sense it. This worries me. Slightly.

So the big day arrives - as I launch myself on an unsuspecting public. My publisher informs the police to expect a crush - cops on horseback and kitted-out in riot gear are ready to beat back the mobs of screaming fans. First day of the Chester Literature Festival and I'm opening it with the New Writers slot. No pressure then.

I arrive at the St Mary's Centre in Chester. It's pretty cool. It's quite obviously a church. Or an ex church. Ornate ceilings, stained glass windows and a funky sofa chair at the front where I guess the altar once stood. This is to be my writer's chair. I will impart great knowledge from this chair and try not to look like Ronnie Corbett on it (It's the same chair! Honest! Nicked from the Two Ronnies circa 1979).

There's a respectable turn-out. Friends and family and random strangers. I worry about the random strangers - they look a nice bunch. But how will they react?

I stand up for an hour - regaling the crowd with witty (ahem) accounts of my early writing career and interspersing it with snippets from the book. I am careful to avoid any of the overly profane paragraphs for fear of corrupting the ears of the young toddlers running around the front of the venue. (In Chester, all children are made to run around outside old churches to pay their keep - it's a local tradition. Like Morris Dancing. But for kids).

It's a buzz. I love it. If ever there was a moment when I realised I could do this for a living - it was immediately after when we all set off the pub at 3 in the afternoon. At last - my ideal career!

And then it's back to reality - the cult celebrity-status high of Monday is replaced by the sad anonimity of every day normal life by Tuesday. Ho Hum. Everyday life can still be quite amusing though. On Saturday morning at 7 am downstairs on the couch with Fintan it began like this.

"Hey Daddy - what is this?" says Fintan as he pulls something from the depths of the couch.

"It's Mummy's Bra" I say.

"Is that for her Boops?"

"Er..well...yes...they're for her Boops..."

I am not about to get into a conversation about the correct pronounciation of Boobs. That way can only lead to further complications.

Later that day, my mum comes up from London and we take the kids to the Zoo. Declan hollers at the Elephants but is non-plussed by the Komodo Dragon. Fintan informs me that "Dum Dum is sad because we are leaving the zoo." Dum Dum is a forty foot giant Easter Island statue made of fibre glass. He also lives in Night at the Museum. When we get back I tell Fintan that Nanna Market is my mum. And I lived in her tummy once.

"Yes. And I lived in mummy's tummy and then when I grew up, then Declan lived in Mummy's tummy."

"That's right Fintan. That's exactly right!" I say. Proud that he understands the rudimentary points of reproduction and the family org chart. (I don't think they call them that - but I do).

"Living in mummy's tummy. That's disgustin'!" he tells me.

Hmmmm - I suppose it is. But it still beats living in a hunk of pink goo with a giant needle in yer neck and getting farmed out as dinner for a bunch of sentient robots. I leave that out. Perhaps the Matrix is for next week's night night chat.