Ah Sports Day! The tears, the tantrums, the torn ligaments… and that’s just the parents on the sidelines.

No, I’m joking, really…

I’ve got two Sports Days this week. First, Son (13) who was running the race of heros: the 800m. The afternoon before he’d done the race of masochists: the 1500m.

The best thing about watching my son run is that he is always delighted with his result. He is not the fastest, but he has trained like a mad thing and worked himself up from middle of the pack to Contender for the Bronze.

In both his races, he was nudged back into fourth place, but he was still grinning from ear-to-ear, delighted with his result and a new ‘PB’ time. I’m such a sports dunce, I didn’t even know that meant ‘personal best’.

When I was at school, I was rubbish at running. I remember getting so tall one year that my arms and legs were completely out of my control. I began a sprint but then lost it and fell on my face. In front of all the parents, so mortifying!

In my teens I managed to get into the high jump one year – even more mortifying because we had to take off our school skirts and jump in our blue school knickers! I blame this horror for completely putting me off so that once again, I came last.

But I do enjoy all the sporting drama from the safety of the spectator stands: the injured racer hobbling off with cramp; the girl who came third brushing tears of disappointment from her face then collapsing into Dad’s arms; some hunky high jumper showing off his grazed shoulders to gorgeous blonde; the house relay races, everyone in a frenzy of cheering; the tug-of-war and all those desperate, last moment bids for glory at the finishing line. The tragedy of being ‘pipped at the post’!

‘Pipped’? Surely ‘robbed’ would express it better?

Yes… think I feel a really good story coming on now.

My second Sports Day with Daughter (9) is tomorrow. She’s really fast. But last year she came second. This year she is absolutely determined to win. I’m trying to play it down for her. I want her to try but I don’t want her to crumble if she doesn’t quite get there. I’ve told her she’s a wonderful runner and she’s to think of herself as a gazelle, running fast, running strong and beautifully. She’s not worry about the result.

She listened carefully to all my earnest ‘it’s not the winning, it’s the taking part’ spiel, then little puzzled look on face, she asked:  ‘Mum? What’s a gazelle?’

On the book front: the next instalment of Secrets at St Jude’s: Jealous Girl is out on 2nd July for everyone who loved New Girl and can’t wait to find out what happens next…

Make a little room in your summer holiday suitcase for the new Annie Valentine, as How Not To Shop comes out on 13th August.

At the AK Bell Theatre in Perth, I served my first ever time on a discussion panel this month.  Is The Love Story Dead? Discuss. It was a really interesting and enjoyable evening. Great to meet writers Ewan Morrison and Sharon Blackie as well as the incredibly well-read Dorothy Macmillan, Stuart Kelly and Ajay Close. Just as soon as I’d sipped down my second Buck’s Fizz to quell those public speaking nerves, I had a great time!

I’m going on a library tour in September… more details to follow next month. Hope I can catch up with lots of readers.

The rest of June has been all about two of the Very Important Males in my life: my son and my Dad.

On the same day that my son went off on his first week-long school trip to an outward bound adventure centre thingy, my Dad went into hospital to have his hip replaced.

Oh what a lovely amount of fretting and stressing I did! Will Sam have enough socks? Eat enough fibre? Survive the abseiling lesson? Will Dad have enough books to read? Eat any hospital food? Survive the operation?!!

Good grief it was stressful. My Mum and I got through much more wine and cake than usual, I can tell you.

However, the week ended. Sam came off the bus looking tall, brown, grubby and ridiculously chirpy. He was absolutely fine – apart from a neck rash brought on by a combination of ‘slurping on midge repellent like gravy’ (his words) and not washing properly (well, he is newly 11!) And apparently abseiling – which he’d been slightly worried about – was the best fun ever.

Dad came out of hospital the following day and went home to the farm along with crutches, a raised loo-seat and various other gadgets.

He has always been the fittest, healthiest person I know. Up until two years ago he was still running (he doesn’t jog, he RUNS!) and he looks after a herd of 80 cattle, so the ever-increasing hip problem has taken some time for him to adjust to.

I have no idea how Mum is going to keep him resting for six weeks. There is already talk of how soon can he get back on his bike (his new hobby now that he can’t run!) and my Dad’s usual competitive streak  means he will want to make the fastest recovery from the operation ever!

More news next month when I get back from New York! Yes, I’ll just say that once again… when I get back from New York!!

I’ve had loads of messages about Secrets at St Jude’s: New Girl from my new teenage fans, which is very exciting. I’m really, really thrilled that you’re loving it, girls. And yes, there is another book to come next summer. I’m just putting the finishing touches to Jealous Girl right now.

Does it reveal how incredibly old and pernickety I’m getting if I add that most of those fan messages are spelled so badly it takes quite some time to work them out?!!!

On the building front, we are now into week three without a bathroom… hmmmmm… that is a bit of a challenge, to say the least. OK, we have a toilet (without a seat) and we have a teeny weeny cloakroom sink which is just about big enough to brush your teeth in, but altogether the experience is not very happy.

Every member of the family has been affected by this disruption in different ways. I’m in the worst mood all the time. Like PMT all month long. My husband has grown wild: bearded, wearing his anorak indoors, acting like a UN peace envoy between angry wife and builders. My daughter is upset about her dusty hair, dusty clothes and dusty shoes (which we have to polish every morning). My son has developed an acute anxiety about Jimmy, our dog, running away because the builders keep leaving the door open.

Time for me to take calming breaths and repeat once again, it will be over, very, very soon.

This week I have not just one, but two new books out. For a start, this has meant answering the door to the florist burdened with an enormous bunch of flowers from my publishers, not just once, daaaahlings, but twice!

Two bouquets on different days! How diva-ish is that?! I feel as if I should be reclining in a pink ball gown eating chocolates to do my flowers full justice.

But as always, real life gets in the way and I actually spent one publication morning rushing to the doctor’s with Sam because he’s had a strangely sore tummy for several days. Although the word appendicitis was flashing in my mind, our very nice GP assured us that it almost certainly wasn’t and now in my handbag I have a plastic sample bottle with a little plastic spoon attached to the lid. I think all the Mummies reading this know what that’s going to involve. Oh joy.

No, in fact there was some lounging on a velvet sofa in a pink dress for a photo shoot with The Sunday Times Scotland. We did the pictures in this highly glamorous boutique called Cruise and it just seemed rude not to try their beautiful clothes on.

So before you could say Prada, I was on the couch in a clingy Vivienne Westwood frock and fantasy shoes: the only pair that could be found in my size were Dior, gold, six inch, python, peep toes. Fortunately the photo doesn’t show the hideously un-pedicured state of my feet nor the rhino hide I seem to have developed on my knees. Phew!

Anyway, it is very exciting to see piles of Late Night Shopping in so many places… Woolworths, Waterstones, Borders. I just hope YOU, my lovely, lovely readers, like it. A lot of people grew very fond of Annie as they read The Personal Shopper and I really hope you’re going to enjoy her second book of adventures just as much.

Now get out there and buy a copy or two… or three!