So Jerusalem is out in the ocean, bobbing among the driftwood, fending for itself. Is it waving, drowning or simply treading water? No idea.  For the first time, I'm remaining wilfully ignorant of all reviews - good, bad or, probably worst of all, not happening - and it is a much happier state than my previous fevered engagement.

I wish I'd figured this out before. For six books, I've pretended I'm adequately mature to deal with the slings and arrows with impeccable serenity. Finally, I seem to have reached an adequate maturity to admit I'm not.

You tell yourself it doesn't matter, either in fact or in the broader scheme of things. And of course it doesn't. You tell yourself nobody reads them anyway. And they don't. You tell yourself it's all a game. And it is. But if you read the reviews you've joined in. That's what I've decided anyway.

It's a choice that has required some nifty deletion of e-mails, messages and tweets, but so far so good. - anything better than that circular solipsism that makes me act like an arsehole.