Woosh, the mother of all hang-overs has finally died. It took me over 24 hours of nourishing, sleeping, pampering and patience to get her out of my system and to let her die out.

On Friday my publishing house threw a party for it's 75th anniversary. As writers do, I drank too much. Not just a little bit, but over the top, all the way, hammered. On my way back home I managed to fell of my bike, hurting my knee and injuring my pride. The girl I was with was not impressed, and the next day neither was I... However, I was not the only one who got smashed. I was in the company of others, as writers do.

Thank god I spoke to my editor and to the woman who is trying to sell my book to foreign publishing houses while sober. This week is the Frankfurter Buchmesse, and both of them are going there. Being rock 'n' roll when you are an established writer: ok. But being rock 'n' roll while nobody knows you is a bit daunting. So we talked while I was sober, we agreed that I would translate a sample of my book and that they would try to pitch it somewhere.

That in itself was enough for me to celebrate. Hence the hang-over yesterday...