Neil Gaiman's coming to the UK. There will be signings. Which means there may well be queueings. And nerves. Maybe vomiting. Hopefully not. I nearly threw up on Martin Carr's feet once, but that was an unfortunate combination of nerves and food poisoning. At least, that's the story I've maintained for the last decade and I'm not changing it now.

You know, I'd much rather meet Neil in some sort of official capacity, as an equal not as a fan. It would be so much easier on my stomach, not to mention Neil's shoes. This is something I will have to carefully engineer, if not this time round then next. Hmm. Neil, you're not interested in being a patron of our new digital rights organisation at all, are you? You wouldn't have to do anything, just say what a terrifically good idea it all is and let me shake your hand and call you Neil as if I know you and then blush a furious shade of red whilst stammering that we were terrifically, terrifically pleased to have your support. Really very terrifically.

You know, (that's you, dear reader, not necessarily you, dear Neil, although maybe it is you if you happen to swing past on your way through to places more fascinating), I really should write one of these damn books I've been thinking about writing. I am in weekly discussions with my agent now, the truly terrific Neil Salkind from Studio B, about stuff, and I'm feeling particularly enthused about the whole concept of writing having just agreed to write a chapter for Uses of Blogs, ed. Axel Bruns and Joanne Jacobs.

It's been a while since I've felt the creeping need to write something big, but it's crawling through my veins as I type. And believe me, a 3500 word braindump on digital rights is merely a sticking plaster on the wound of auctorial ambition. No, I must begin a book, forthwith and henceforth.

After I've had some sleep.