Now that I'm an established author whose meditations are even being quoted internationally, I decided yesterday to try my hand at short story writing. It was harder than I'd thought it would be. At school we're given essay titles which help to focus the mind. But when you can write about anything at all, it's much harder.

My first attempt was about a self-taught viloinist who turns down a marriage proposal because she doesn't respect the manner in which she is asked - over a Chicken Biryani in her flat with Question Time on in the background. When I'd finished it (and I knew I had because the proposal was finally acceptable) I read it over then put a line right the way through it. What else could I do? Of all the subjects in the world to write about, of all the views close to my heart I could have put across, of all the people I had met and admired, I had chosen to describe a self-taught violinist and a Chicken Biryani. And I don't even like Chicken Biryani. And I can't even play the violin. And I've never even had a marriage proposal.

So I tried again. This time, I was happier with the content. A successful and beautiful young woman (and already I felt this heroine was someone I could relate to) suddenly decides to have a flatmate, to the horror of her admiring Russian boyfriend - a violinist (my persistent obsession with the violin took even me by surprise). I liked the storyline because it had a twist - the flatmate is assumed throughout to be a young woman - she's full of life and strong-willed and attractive to men who are drawn to her vibrant, outspoken personality. It's not until the end that the reader discovers the flatmate is eighty-five. At least this time I had written about characters I admired. But I feared that some readers might feel that the heroine had made the wrong choice in turning down the opportunity to live with the Russian violinist in favour of her eighty-five year old Great Aunt. Personally, I thought she made exactly the right choice, but I had my readers to consider.

I didn't try again after that. Short stories, I decided, were not for Harriet Rose. I may be able to condense my thoughts into Meditations, but I cannot condense my characters - they have too much to say.

When I'm asked if I have a boyfriend, I never know what to say. I find the whole concept of 'boyfriend' a curious one. A friend who is a boy? I have several of those. Yet when the two words are juxtaposed they seem to take on an entirely different meaning, like egg and cress sandwiches - each ingredient boring on its own but delicious once you put them together. Not that I consider a 'boyfriend' delicious. It's concepts I'm discussing rather than their implications. Philosophers will understand that, especially if they've ever mixed theirs with mayonnaise to bind the egg and cress together.

So what ingredient is it that similarly binds together a boy and a friend into that elusively indefinable concept 'boyfriend', used randomly to extend on occasion even to ageing lotharios who haven't been 'boys' for very many years? Wherein lies the mayonnaise of a 'boyfriend'? Not enough people reflect on such questions before answering them. And you should. Unless, of course, you don't care to answer questions truthfully, in which case you're not really someone worth talking to anyway.

Perhaps I'll find the answer when I have a boyfriend. Then again, perhaps I have one already and I don't know it. I'm referring, of course, to Jean Claude, a boy who's most certainly a friend, but, as Nana would say, a friend to who else? If asked, I think the safest solution might be to leave a small pause between the words 'boy' and 'friend' and then I shan't be saying anything untruthful. Like this:

"So, Harriet, is Jean Claude like your boyfriend then, or what?"

"Yes, Jason, Jean Claude is my boy" then the small pause, "friend."

That should do the trick.

Why can't someone invent a mirror that shows you what you look like the correct way round? Am I alone in not wanting to be reversed? Is Rabbie Burns the only other person to understand the importance of seeing yourself as others see you?

P.S. If such a mirror already exists, I apologise in advance and ask that the inventor be more ambitious in his or her sales campaign.

P.P.S. I could always lend you my own very successful sales representative - Nana - if necessary.

Those of you who have been with me from the start will recall that the title 'The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose' was taken from my Meditation 33 which I wrote on the day of my father's funeral. And now, less than two years later, those very words have been translated into several languages across the world. What I wrote in despair has become a reason for joy and celebration. My father would have liked that.

Why is 'why' so important to me
And why not 'who', 'what', 'where' or 'when'?
Why can't I be like the others I see
Who don't seek the motives of men?

I've searched for the truth
Through all of my youth,
But the answer I still cannot find.
Should I ask 'why' no more,
Close my eyes, shut the door?
Not while reason lives on in my mind.


Wore my t-shirt with 'Why?' across the chest today, very slightly raised at the 'W' and the 'y', understated, with a quiet hint of greater things to come. Nana said it looked daft, that people would think I didn't understand anything, that there was no point in 'Why?' when no-one knew what the question was, that I'd be better off with 'Because' than 'Why?', that at least then people would think I had the answer. I fear that Nana will never make a philosopher.

Ode to the reviewer who described me in a broadsheet newspaper as beautiful, confident, clever, successful, much-loved and loving

There are some who brush against your life
With the gentle touch of an angel's wing
Never knowing how much joy
That touch can bring
Your paths may never cross
You will not know them
But in their hearts
They'll hear a young girl sing

I looked up and saw the clouds parting in the sky
Torn by the dazzling light of the summer sun
I listened and heard the sound of a thousand angels
All gathered to applaud what this man had done
Loudly they heralded his arrival
With voices that were clear and pure and true
But of all the angels gathered there in heaven
None, Luciano, sang as well as you

'I once lost a race when I'd won it.
It taught me that life's seldom fair.
I watched while they made losers winners,
Pretending that I didn't care.

'I've tasted the beauty of winning.
I've savoured the joy of success.
I've relished the failure of rivals.
I've longed for perfection, no less.

'But now when they make me a winner
I hesitate as they applaud.
For winning can sometimes be losing.
Perfection is often best flawed.

'So tell me I've won, but with caution.
Remind me of others who've failed.
And we'll all wait for that final curtain
To teach us what winning entailed.'


So you have your copy of The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose and you've started to read all about me. After a few pages you'll think you know me very well. A few more and you'll wonder if you don't. Then you'll reach the end and you'll all form different opinions of me. I'll be discussed and compared, admired by some, disliked perhaps by others. There'll be those who think I have succeeded whilst a few no doubt will consider that I've failed. And some of your comments will make me so happy, and others will make me feel sad. Because The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose isn't just a book, it's an experience. And that is what the race is all about.

BREAKING NEWS

Tomorrow. 9th August 2007. A date in a diary. A page in a book. But it is not just a day: it is the day. A day to remember, when you wake up in the morning and plan what you are going to do. A day to enjoy when you make your way with nimble tread to your local bookshop. A day to savour, when you return home, clutching a long-awaited copy of The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose. For tomorrow is publication date for the first edition of the hardback. The Infinite Wisdom of Harriet Rose, the book in which Diana Janney tells the story of my life. Or part of it anyway - there's too much to tell in just one book. So there you are. The day before tomorrow. Relish the moment.

I was about to say that Charlotte Goldman is a bitch, but why offend an innocent animal and a particularly loving and faithful one at that? So I'll stick to my original description of her, the one I gave her even before I knew how hard she was trying to ensnare Jean Claude - a mosquito, a tiny creature, insignificant to look at, noisy in intonation, a nuisance, always looking for someone to feed off, with a rather unpleasant bite which doesn't last long and most important of all, very easily squashed.