That’s the thing about being Special Forces, you tell yourself it’s a job but that doesn’t even convince you, let alone anyone else. So when you’re in survival training in the Brecon Beacons, up to your arse in mud, lost and freezing, they never tell you about the book signings. Or the agents.

06.30 and pissing down, I’ve to get my sorry arse to Leadenhall for a signing. No choice, it’s one of mine, I’ve got to go in. The carriage stinks of Falafal wraps, caramel latte and farts. Easy entrance via Fenchurch Street but sodding bankers everywhere, no way to blend in with the suits. If my agent’s there he’ll compromise me straightaway with a ‘Yoohoo! Bravo Too Much!’ across the concourse. By choice, I’d slot him from First Class before disembarkation. He misses me. I appear in Waterstone’s and before anyone eyeballs me, I’m ripping off signatures like an AK47 on auto. Devastated agent appears. Mentally, I give him the good news. Deffo a head shot, right in the gob.