So, I saw copies of The Dating Detox in all the bookshops in T1 on my way to Ireland yesterday, and didn’t have the thrill I thought I would. Odd, huh?

I’ve only had two book-related thrills, actually. One was when Laura, my now-agent, rang to say she liked my first three chapters and could I send the rest. (“Of course!” I trilled, mentally calculating how long it would take me to actually write ‘the rest’.) At the time, I was in a conference room at the ad agency I was freelancing at (I copywrite to keep myself in lipgloss and ankleboots), and when we hung up, I did a little leapy dance around the table, yelping for joy. I then turned around to find the head of client services staring at me, with a gaggle of suits in tow.

The second time I felt a proper book thrill was when Laura rang to say that HC had made an offer. I hung up the phone and smiled so hard that I felt like I should have rays of light beaming from my body, like that nuclear dude in Heroes. It was late Friday afternoon and everyone else was still at work, so I went to the Botanist by myself, ordered a glass of champagne and smoked a celebratory cigarette, and texted everyone I know to tell them. (One reply – ‘That’s great, but who is this?’ – sort of put things in perspective. Thanks Greg.) Then I went out for dinner with some friends, and drank so much champagne that the next day that when I met a girlfriend for coffee, I was forced to lie down on a park bench for a little while because walking was quite frankly out of the question. Champagne is a vengeful little bitch sometimes.

I think it would be highly exciting if I ever saw someone reading it, but I think that’s unlikely. Martin Amis wrote in Experience that he saw someone reading The Rachel Papers on the tube once, but he’d never seen anyone reading anything of his since.

And now, to my point.

Have you read any David Sedaris?

I was reading Me Talk Pretty Some Day a few weeks ago on the tube and found it so hilarious that I accidentally cackled aloud and slapped my thigh in delight. Note: try not to do this within Zone 1 or 2, as people will think you’re nuts. As you get into Zones 3 and 4, you can act more crazy without drawing too much attention to yourself, and once you’re in Zone 5 and 6, you could duct-tape a stuffed owl to your shoulder whilst playing the spoons on your nipples and no one would look twice.

I’d love any and all suggestions for funny reads. I’ll need them for the minute I send the puppy we call Book Deux to Laura and find myself with lots of free time. And not just the isn’t-Mrs-Bennett-annoying and doesn’t-Hardy-have-the-horn-for-Tess type literary chuckles. I’m talking about out-and-out close-your-eyes-throw-your-head-back-and-guffaw laughter. Lucky Jim and Heartburn also make me laugh, by the way, but I’ve already listed them in the books-for-comfort post, so does Philip Roth and Joshua Ferris and a book called Making Love by a righteous dude called Marius Brill. But I need something new.

So come on. Let’s have it. Email me at gemma@gemmaburgess.com

My first book, The Dating Detox, is in shops ahead of schedule.

This fills me with pride (the clever little thing, it was always advanced for its age) and nausea (you mean people are actually READING it?).

I realised yesterday that I hadn’t prepared for this bit. Everything has been geared towards publication. Typos and inconsistencies and PR, oh my. And now it’s all done, and I’m mildly surprised every time I look at the book. I’m like one of those mothers-to-be who obsesses about the gestation and birth and then goes home with a tiny baby and thinks ‘what the hell am I supposed to do with THIS, then?’. All I did was have sex, I mean, all I did was start writing something that I thought was amusing and suddenly it’s a book.

So, perhaps I’ll just say this. If you’ve read it: I hope you liked it. And if you didn’t like it, please don’t tell me. I’m allergic to criticism. It brings me out in cigarettes.

In fact the whole thing makes me knotty-tongued. So instead of focusing on The Dating Detox, I shall talk about the second book.

As I keep saying, it’s called The Late Starter, or perhaps, The Dating Virgin. I have even more trouble with titles than I do with names (see: www.namethatbastard.com for details on the trouble I have with names).

It’s not about the same characters, though I do love The Dating Detox characters and hope to revisit them in another book soon. (I have some extremely fun plans for them, the little scamps.)

The plot: after the demise of a long-term relationship, our heroine, Abigail, must learn how to be single. I went through this, so did an awful lot of my friends, and the truth is that readjusting to single life is strange and hard and funny and sometimes horrible. You have to learn how to socialise as a singleton, to flirt, to spend time alone, to (hopefully) pick up, deal with a one night stand, survive a bad date, enjoy a good date… It’s a skill.

No, it’s an art.

So. Abigail navigates the tarry bogs of single life in London with the help of her flatmate, a notorious bastard and lothario called Robert. He teaches her how to date like a man, or more specifically, like a bastard. And that’s when things get interesting.

I’m going to knuckle down over Christmas and really nail this puppy, so the first draft will be done in the next two or three weeks. If you have any thoughts on what makes adjusting to single life surreal or difficult, please get in touch, I’d love to hear from you. My email address is gemma@gemmaburgess.com

Exeunt, stage left, bowing deeply.

Where was I?

Oh yes.

On drinking.

I like pubs. I also like bars. I like everything in between.

And so, here are my five favourite places to drink in London this December.

(I say ‘December’ because I’m feeling festive and wintry, and the places I’d go in April or August are obviously, totally different, and I say ‘this December’ because I’ve slaked my thirst in lots of different, equally Christmassy places over the years, and I’m sick of some of them. So, in other words, this is a whim-based list about where I’d drink tonight if I could.)

1. The Windsor Castle, Notting Hil
Yes, it’s a tourist trap, and yes, the service is verging on a joke and yes, it’s frequented by thieves so your bag has a fighting chance of disappearing if you don’t keep your hand on it at all times. But it’s cosy as fuck. Much of the pub is divided into little snugs (room-lets with just a table and benches built in), with tiny doorways cut for Ye Shortarses Of Ye Olden Days connecting them. Plus it has fireplaces and mulled wine. There’s also a garden with fairy lights strewn all around, and at nighttime, after several glasses of well, anything, it’s magic. Recently I got inappropriately drunk here with my friend Alida on a Thursday afternoon when I was meant to be writing my second book. Whoops.

2. The Antelope, Chelsea
This tiny pub is tucked into Eaton Terrace like a happy little Christmas elf flanked by leggy supermodels. There’s a fireplace and bookshelves at the back, and if you’re there early enough, you can take over said area and settle in for the night. I have not been here since last winter and intend to rectify this at the earliest opportunity. Bags the seat next to the fireplace.

3. The Portobello Star, Notting Hill
I could throw a stone and break a window of this bar from my house, if a) all the houses in between us weren’t in the way, b) I could throw and c) I wasn’t a bit of a sissy when it came to doing naughty things like that. The point is: it’s close, and the cocktails here are unbefuckinglievable. The Tommy margarita is, I like to think, named thus because the English tommies used to make it in the trenches. It seems like the kind of drink that would cure trenchfoot. The decor is somehow welcoming and shabby and cool and clever, all at once.

4. The Only Running Footman, Mayfair
Whenever I think of Mayfair, I picture the word in green and red, with snow on top of the letters and holly hanging off the ‘M’ and the ‘r’. What I mean is that the whole area could have been designed for Christmas, and this is the most Christmassy pub of all. It’s like some of my other favourite eating pubs in London (the Thomas Cubitt, The Pantechnicon Rooms): there’s warm, welcoming ground floor bar with totally rad burger and chips and a slightly posher 1st floor restaurant where everything is perfect. This pub is a sure thing. (The Sure Thing is an awesome and underappreciated film, by the way.)

5. Bumpkin, Notting Hill
This pub had a starring role in The Dating Detox, and then, because of tedious geographic issues, I had to change it. Which is a tragedy, as I love the warm slightly-ironic-but-not-too-much-farmhouse-chic of Bumpkin (the Notting Hill one, not the South Kensington one, which is perfectly fine but, well, you know, I met the NH one first). I eat there so often, particularly in winter, that it’s slightly embarrassing. Now this is very firmly a restaurant pub, though there’s a bar where cocktails are made (very, very good ones, especially the winter mulled cider cocktail, it’s like a hot water bottle of joy in your tummy). The burger is exceptional and the chips are outstanding, but it’s the pies that’ll keep you coming back time after time. The big square corner table was perfectly designed for 12 to 16 people to enjoy a long, loud, boozy meal together. And if that doesn’t scream Christmas, then I don’t know what does. I just like everything about this place. There’s also a specials blackboard, and one Sunday, the manager Rupert wrote ‘You’re a special’ on it. See what I mean?

PS Honourary mentions because I hate leaving them out when they’re so damn cosy, but five is a nice even number:
The Pig’s Ear, Chelsea
The Churchill Arms, Kensington
The Colton Arms, Barons Court