Monday I could feel a nose that was about to sneeze, and I knew it was my own.

I’m going to sneeze.

“Have a tissue,” said my 47-year-old literary agent who was wearing a red and green striped tie and a brown corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows and other stuff that I’ll mysteriously not mention despite being so incredibly specific thus far.

“Thank you,” I said, and I sneezed like I did the first time we met over a decade ago when I had no idea that I would one day be the incredibly famous bestselling 45-year-old author Dan Brown who wrote The Da Vinci Code.

Today we were meeting to discuss my next novel which will be a bestselling story about where all the odd socks go.

“That’s a rubbish idea,” said my agent. And even when I told him that the mystery would be solved by an intelligent and beautiful Harvard sockologist who looks like Angelina Jolie he did not change his mind.

“The famous author is disappointed,” I told him.

“You don’t need to tell me that,” said my agent. “I can infer it from the look on your face and the general circumstances of the situation.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“I know,” said my agent.

Tuesday I am very disappointed with my 47-year-old agent’s reaction to the socks idea.

He didn’t like it. I’ll have to think of another one.

It isn’t easy thinking up new ideas for bestselling conspiracy novels.

Particularly if they have to be fresh and original like mine always are.

Suddenly my 56-year-old wife and alleged art historian Blythe stands silhouetted in the doorway with her brown eyes flashing like small bits of wood. My wife and I collaborate on much of my work although she isn’t always sure that my similes work. We also disagree on what “silhouette” means.

“Honey?” she says. “If you’re stuck, why not just write another book about the renowned Harvard symbologist Robert Langdon?”

Hmmm. Maybe.

If I’m honest I’m trying to phase him out. I’ve never actually met a Harvard symbologist. I’m worried that a real one will come along and tell me I’m getting things wrong.

Wednesday There was a bestselling author who was still trying to think of a plot for his next novel and that bestselling author was the famous 45-year-old Dan Brown who was me.

“I have a terrible cold,” he said aloud to nobody in particular but mainly because he couldn’t think of any other way to get the information on to the page.

“Honey,” says the silhouette of my 56-year-old wife. “You’re getting weird.”

Thursday In desperation I call Tom Hanks. He’s a 53-year-old actor who looks like an old Tom Hanks.

“Tom,” I say. “I need a new conspiracy. I’ve just done Freemasons and the US Government. I can’t think where else to go.”

Tom, who might be wearing a polo shirt and slacks but might not be because how would I know, asks me what my options are.

“Not sure,” I say. “Obviously there will be an albino monk hitman, but other than that I’m sort of stumped. Any ideas? You’re bound to end up starring in it.”

Tom Hanks starts crying and says something about how he won Oscars back in the 1990s and people used to think he might be president.

“Your acting lights up the world,” I tell him. “Like a fabulous trumpet.”

“Leave me alone,” says Tom Hanks.

Friday Back in to see my 48-year-old agent who has had a birthday.

“How is your nose?” he asks.

“It burns,” I tell him. “Like sandpaper.” My agent closes his eyes and asks if I’ve had a better idea yet.

“Nope,” I say. “Still keen on the sock one.”

“Oh, what the hell,” says my agent. “Let’s go for a first print run of 17 million copies.”

*According to Hugo Rifkind

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