Bungalow

The only way I can get the kind of profit I need in order to move pack to 'my patch' in N. London is to build a loft room in this house. But Mr G has been ferreting away on the council website and has told me that someone further down the street had to make 8 applications at several hundred pounds a time, before they got permission. Not only that, but you are only permitted to extend a house by so much, and this one already has a kitchen extension and a conservatory. Not only that, but they don't appear to have had planning permission for them, either.

I have rung the agent and asked him to find out. He said, "Oh well, if it was done years ago, it doesn't matter." Oh yes, it does. When I bought my last house, I discovered the stairs had moved from a straight flight to a right-angle and the vendors had to take out insurance before I bought it, in case the council came along and insisted they had to be put back to where they originally were.

I can see that there have to be rules to stop people knocking down their houses and building monstrosities that would block out all the neighbours' light and ruin their privacy, but it really is a minefield.

This morning, I had a ticket to go to Leicester for lunch with my literary agent. My head was buzzing with ideas to discuss with her. Then came the news over the radio that a tube train had broken down on the very route that takes me to St Pancras station. So I emailed her and said I had to cancel as I couldn't get there. "Damn," she said, "I was so looking forward to having a girly chat." So then I emailed her a couple of my ideas for children's books. "No point even thinking about books, nothing's selling," she replied.

She said the same thing two years ago, which means my creative side has been idle as it seems pointless even starting anything. Yet... she is considering taking on a young man I put her way, and marketing his books. So why not mine?

I'm so disappointed and so hopping mad that I'm glad I didn't trail all the way to Leicester (3 hours each way from where I live), only to be told to give up writing as it's pointless. Why did she take me on as a client if she doesn't want me to write, but only wants to meet for lunch and 'girly chats'? It all points to the fact that if I want to carry on writing, my only route is to go it alone, sans agents and avec Amazon.