A few hours ago I signed on the dotted line, so I guess it must be true.
I have an agent.
A real one, with teeth and hair and fingers and everything.
I daren't say any more in case it turns out to be a freakish mistake, but inside I'm marching along to a brass band with my pants on my head, singing "When the Saints Go Marching In ..."
Heaven knows why. They're not even my best pants.
Just wanted to let you all know, and make it a bit more real.