Diary – 30 July 2015

The week starts well. My debut novel, The Miniaturist, is a year old. On the anniversary of its publication, my friend Patrick the bookie sends me a message to say a horse called Miniaturist is running at Sandown. I’m not normally a betting woman, but I decide to have a punt. An hour later, Miniaturist has won and I’ve collected 125 quid. Ain’t it a glorious feeling when your horse comes in?

Things decline a little after that. After nine years not driving, I’m back behind the wheel and taking refresher lessons from Silvano, a Venetian south-east Londoner with a bullish prognosis for getting me up to speed. We pootle around in the small Japanese teapot he teaches in, and witness a motorcyclist spitting through an open car window. As we recover, Silvano tells me a tale of how a woman rammed a stiletto into the side of his friend’s head as punishment for being a road hog.