Today I'll finish writing my new book. Like a 42 week pregnancy this book has become the subject of whispered enquiries. 'They can't let her go on,' I'm sure friends have been saying. 'They should have her admitted. Put her out of her misery.'
Tomorrow I'll be able to do all the things that for the past few months I have left undone. I might go for a swim. I might make some fresh fettuccine, and I'll almost certainly watch a Bette Davis movie. One thing I can guarantee, I'll be going for a long, anxious walk while Mr Fitzpatrick reads the manuscript. My husband is always the first person to read my stuff. He's a thorough and intelligent editor and he loves my books but I cannot stay within earshot when he's doing that first read-through. Was that a sigh I heard? Tem minutes and he hasn't laughed? Didn't he just turn that page in a rather exasperated way? Laurie Graham will definitely be leaving the building.

This week's culinary notes. Figs, sliced in half, left briefly cut face down in 50:50 olive oil and balsamic vinegar and then frizzled on a hot plate for five minutes are exceedingly good indeed. We had them last night with cold prosciutto.

And in this house crabs are now designated 'restaurant food'. I bought some at the market and was weighed down every step of the way home with the thought that I had to commit crabicide . I stopped off to buy bread and when I glanced down there was a claw waving out of the top of the shopping bag. Uh-oh. No more.
In future if a person wants crab cakes a person had better just go to Baltimore.