The World According to Bob

a condemned man, enjoying a final, fleeting moment of pleasure before going to face the firing squad. But another part of me felt a sense of anticipation. I felt like I was on the verge of a fresh start in my life; that, for want of a better phrase, a new chapter in my life was beginning.
    I felt queasier than ever. I had so many conflicting thoughts fighting for space in my head. What if no one turned up? What if loads of people turned up and thought the book was rubbish? How would Bob react if there was a crowd? How would people react to me? I wasn’t a typical author. I wasn’t a polished public personality. I was a guy who was still operating on the fringes of society. Or at least, that’s how it felt. I knew people would love Bob, but I was terrified that they’d hate me.
    I drew on the last remnant of my cigarette, making it last for as long as possible. The nerves had solidified inside me to such an extent that I felt like someone had punched me really hard in the stomach.
    Luckily Bob was being extra cool for both of us. He spent a couple of minutes rooting around in a favourite little spot then sauntered back to me. He just gave me a look as if to say: ‘it’s all right, mate, it’s all good.’
    It was uncanny how he was able to calm me.
    Arriving at the bookshop about half an hour before the signing was due to start, there were four or five people standing in line outside. Ah well, someone has turned up at least , I said to myself, relieved. They all smiled at us and I gave them a sheepish wave. I couldn’t quite get my head round the idea that people were giving up an hour of their evening to come and meet us. There were a few more people inside the store as well. They were all stood in a queue to pay and were all holding copies of the book.
    Alan, the manager, invited me upstairs to the staff room where I could wait for the signing to start.
    ‘You can have a glass of wine and Bob can have a saucer of milk. You can take it easy for a minute before things get under way,’ he said, sensing my nervousness.
    I wasn’t sure whether to keep a clear head or to have a drink for Dutch courage. I decided on the former. I’d have a glass of wine afterwards.
    Belle, Mary, Garry and a bunch of people from the publishers were there to wish me luck. There was also a stack of books for me to sign for general sale in the store. Someone had come up with the rather bright idea of having a paw-shaped stamp so that Bob could also ‘sign’ each book. I got to work scrawling on the first copies. Belle added the final flourishing touch with the paw stamps. There were at least two dozen books in the pile. Were they sure they’d even sell this many?
    The staff from the store seemed positive. At one point one of them arrived beaming.
    ‘It’s stretching all the way around the block,’ she smiled.
    ‘What is?’ I said, stupidly.
    ‘The queue. It’s stretching all the way back around the corner. There’s probably a hundred people there with more joining all the time.’
    I was speechless. I didn’t think it was possible to feel any more anxious, but somehow I did. There was an open window next to me. For a moment, I thought about climbing out of it, shinning my way down the drainpipes and making a hasty escape.
    As the clock ticked down towards 6pm, Bob climbed up on my shoulder and we headed back down to the main store. On the landing at the bottom of the first flight of stairs, I knelt down and took a sneaky look down on to the shop floor. My heart jumped into my throat. It was heaving with people.
    A table stacked with books had been laid out ready for me and Bob. The line of people waiting to file past it was stretching along the bookshelves all the way to the entrance and out into the dark March evening. They were right. There must have been a hundred people and more in it. At the other side of the store, a separate queue of people were lined up, buying copies of the book. There was even a group of photographers and a television cameraman there.
    It was surreal, an out-of-body experience. Until now we’d been hidden from view but as we started walking down the final flight of steps, the cameras began flashing and photographers began shouting.
    ‘Bob, Bob, this way, Bob.’
    There was even a ripple of applause and a couple of cheers.
    My years on the street with Bob had taught me to expect the unexpected. We’d learned to adapt, to roll with the punches, sometimes literally. This time, however, it felt