Acknowledgments
Apparently it’s the done thing, at the end of a memoir, to acknowledge anyone who helped during the writing process. At least, that’s what my editor says (I suspect she’s hoping for a mention). I guess it’s the book equivalent to an Oscars acceptance speech, only without the emotional breakdown and horrific evening wear.
Much as it goes against my feline nature to show gratitude to anyone of the human persuasion, I suppose there are a few who have helped me to get where I am today. You could call them my other Team Nancy.
So, here goes.
To my wonderful agent Diane Banks, for not dismissing outright what must have been the worst book pitch in history, and for championing me every step of the way since (even though I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion you don’t actually like cats!).
To my editor Becca Hunt, for your enthusiasm and professionalism, and for “getting” my sense of humor. Mostly.
To my owners (big and little), for being my chauffeurs, publicists, playmates, and caterers. I did well to choose you.
To all the cats featured in the book (and their owners) for your cooperation, and to the people of Harpenden for welcoming me into your homes and ensuring I always return home safely.
And to my original Facebook gang (you know who you are), for giving me the idea to write this book in the first place.
1 The sharp-eyed among you may have noticed that there is in fact a cat pun in the title of my book. You can blame my editor for this. She thought it would help sales.
2 For the record, she also taught me that what black cats lack in cuteness, they make up for in intelligence.
3 In case you’re wondering: yes, I could already read. I told you black cats are intelligent.
4 For the benefit of my non-British readers, “moggy” means nonpedigree.
5 For the record, if anyone ever decides to make a film out of my memoirs à la Bridget Jones, I will insist on having the deciding vote on the actress who is to provide my voice. I’m thinking English rose: a Keira Knightley or an Emily Blunt. Someone with a bit of class, who knows how to speak the Queen’s English. No offense, Renée.
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