'Clothes are like book covers - the right ones reflect who you are and hint at what you're about, but they can't hide for long what's inside them.'

Take Charlotte Goldman's bra for instance. Quite a little fashion statement to the undiscerning eye. In principle, there's nothing wrong with a depiction of Winnie the Pooh over each nipple area. A strategically placed icon, some might say. A tasteful blend of innocence and haute couture. And yet, look a little closer behind the ursine facade and what do you see? A pair of breasts that would fit better into a couple of corn plasters.

It's all about style, you see. And that only comes from the inside out. It doesn't work the other way round. There's no point in hiding a bad book behind a beautiful cover. Remember that, Charlotte Goldman, the next time I invite you to my mother's health club (if there is a next time) and you spend half an hour preening yourself in front of the changing room's mirror whilst sneering at my white cotton vest tucked into matching pants. But my red high-legged bikini with gold chain straps soon wiped the smirk of your face, as you piled your extensions into your white rubber hat and adjusted the legs of your black polyester swimsuit.

You can't go wrong with red and gold, not when there's something worth looking at inside it. It's the reason my mother chose red and gold for my book cover.

"Let not fame
Go to your head
Like pink champagne"

My very first review in the Evening Standard, with my name and the book title and one of my Meditations all over it. There was even a photograph of me addressing my guests at the London Portrait Academy as they sipped their champagne and orange juice and noted my every word. But I won't let that go to my head. I shall remain the same, introspective, unassuming, modest Harriet Rose I've always been. We chose my dress well, my mother and Nana and I. The journalist was right about my good looks. Even in black and white you could tell I had a certain style, a chicness, something of the author about me.

I hope Jean Claude reads the Evening Standard. He was the only guest I invited to my launch. My mother, the publicist, invited all the rest. I could tell by Jean Claude's expression that he was impressed with my speech. He's a philosopher too. That's why we got on so well from the start. Not that I'll ever speak to him again after the way he let me down that night. My mother, who has a knack of understanding complex affairs of the heart and translating them into simple terms told me what to do: "When he rings," she said, "tell him to sod off". So that's what I'll do - if he rings. But he may not. And I don't care if he doesn't. I only gave him my telephone number because he asked for it.

‘In his infinite wisdom He took you away.
I never shall forget that day.
No fond farewell, no plain goodbye.
Too ill to live, to soon to die.
I want you back,
I won’t let you go,
I need you here,
I miss you so…’

I didn't choose the title of my book myself, it was my mother's and Nana's idea. 'The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose'. It says it all.

I had always called my collection 'The Meditations of Harriet Rose, A Thinking Adolescent', because that's what I am. But in a way, as my mother pointed out, the title was mine, as it came from one of my Meditations which I wrote on the day of my father's funeral. It was my way of letting him know that his death would not deter me from my writing - he would not have wanted that to happen. And just in case he could still see me, I wanted him to know that far from having been deterred, my writing had now become a means of communicating with him, just like the pen he once bought me for my birthday which I use to write my Meditations. Do you think he knows that? Do you think he can read my words? Is he as proud of my title as we are - me, my mother and Nana, those he left behind?

I don't want to make my book sound tragic, because it's not. In fact many of the Meditations will make you laugh. Laugh and cry sometimes at the same page. I liked to make my father laugh like Basil Brush. It's his laugh I remember most.

The Beginning

"Writing requires having something to say. Reading requires a capacity for understanding. Otherwise words are mere markings on a page. Every great writer understands the need for a great reader"

'Who is Harriet Rose?' you may be asking. 'And why have I not heard of her before?'. In answer to your first, I am a philosopher and writer, a creator of mere markings on a page. In answer to your second, I have been waiting for you, readers, to discover me, like a little treasure hidden at the bottom of your garden where you walk every day but which you had been too busy to notice - until now. For every writer needs you, I have known that ever since I began to compose my philosophical reflections some time ago.

Today is my fourteenth birthday, but more importantly it is a catalyst in my life. For today I not only celebrated my fourteen years on earth, I also celebrated becoming a writer, a published writer, the writer of a collection of meditations, like a twenty-first century Marcus Aurelius. For my mother and Nana presented me with a truly unique gift - my own hardback book which they had published and which they have vowed will reach as many readers as possible, with Nana as sales rep, my mother publicist and me, Harriet, esteemed author, quietly reflective in the background. And whilst the three of us are embarking on this new chapter in our fast-moving life together, I thought I would begin this blog to share with you some of my Meditations and experiences of becoming an author.

I hope that begins to answer your question 'Who is Harriet Rose?', and that you, great readers, will never need to ask that question again.