This morning Wilson, hung-over and dehydrated, looks a lot less Noël Coward and a lot more Hunter S Thompson as he sips his triple espresso with paracetamol.
'I've still got Writers' Block, New Dad,' he complained. 'Also my Literary Agent couldn't get me onto The Alan Titchmarsh Show, nor Loose Women. Not even The One Show.'
'Really?' I asked, trying to sound surprised.
'She said the best she could do was get me an appearance on Dickinson's Real Deal, as long as I had something old to sell.'
He buried his face in his paws and sighed.
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