So book 2 hits the shelves today!!! Exciting stuff - The Big Wild World – a must have, essential read, definite collectors item. In fact, some might say it’s a rollercoaster of emotion that will leave you begging for more ‘animal tails’ and veterinary tribulations – so much so, you’ll just have to buy another one and read it again. A novel that should feature in every book club in the world and I know you’re already sold on it but just in case you need a bit more persuading; not only can this book entertain you, but it is big and heavy – you can prop open doors, block drafts and carry it around looking like a serious reader of proper big books. You can even build towers if you buy several – they stack brilliantly.

You may think that writing a book was the actual process of, say, writing it. But to get the point of publication is in fact a milestone of sweat, tears and sore fingers. The graft of writing was a joy - the gaps between consults, last thing at night, first thing in the morning. Blasts of 200-300 words and if I got a clear hour I might nail 1500. Winner. It poured out and I loved it. So surely the challenge was in that first blast of energy? Not even close. The book then goes through numerous editorial reads, tweaks here, there and everywhere, character developments are requested – minor changes like – can you give this person a bit more colour and depth through chapters 3-7? Saying they were wearing a blue jumper and standing in a hole doesn’t crack it. And then, just when you think it is sorted, it gets a legal read - the joys of the modern world.

So finally the text gets there, and the publisher has to decide on a cover. Everyone judges a book by its cover, lets be honest, so it’s a frantic time and then we’re in for the really big bit - the build up to the publicity.

Publicity. Seems a tiny part of writing a book but is about a third of the effort of the whole process. I was profoundly informed that anyone can build a boat, as long as it floats you’re away - it’s the sailing that’s the hard bit. And so learning to sail I must – or in this case plug my book as much as I can decently get away with. Incidentally, I actually think you could build a boat out of my books and as it happens, from today, you can get loads of them on Amazon so give it a go. 

My efforts of publicity with Book 1 had varying degrees of success.

 “How am I supposed to structure my talks?’ I asked the powers that be.

Lisa, a high priestess of the book world, and in my case the publisher managing the prestigious Two Roads imprint at Hodder, looked at me. She was clearly wondering if she had taken a Gamble in more ways than one with my literary efforts.

“Funny anecdotes, engage the audience, draw them into your life – and show pictures, pictures are good. Make people laugh.”

I nodded sagely. Not a single funny thing came to mind other than my attempts to entertain my children with an animal puppet. I doubted the routine would sell many books.

“Right’” I managed.

First up was the Cambridge literary festival. It was a five hour drive. Traffic was hell, the defender powered along the motorways on the inside lane. I was cutting it fine – but reasoned I should be ok. There was a car park near the theatre, shouldn’t be a problem. I reached the car park – the sign clearly said maximum height 190cm. Landrover 182cm. 8cm clearance, no problem. I had twenty minutes before my talk was due to start – tickets had been sold. Almost ten of them as it turned out. What the sign failed to tell me was that the 190cm was the maximum height of the ceiling; the new lights and emergency exit signs recently installed in the car park were somewhat lower than this. Lower, in fact by about 9cm. The cars queued behind me as I ground under the first light, the second one was halfway up a ramp – somehow that made it worse. I got wedged. It was awkward. Needless to say, I was a bit late, the Landrover needs a paint job and parts of the multi-storey car park are now darker in the evenings than they technically should be.

Then was the next talk – the compère was very nice. She asked me if I knew her son who had also been at Bristol University in the mid nineties. Small world, weirdly, he was someone I had had an argument with in a toilet. Not a great anecdote to tell his mother.

The next few were better – the laptop was variable, sound was always a bit of an issue, on one venture my projector screen was a beige curtain - not the best visual performance of the set, but just when I felt the talks were coming together, the most surreal experience would occur. One for me was Chepstow. Finish work early, hop in the truck, and drive a couple of hours to Wales. Locate the boxing gym and enter the small hall to the right. Giving a talk about wrestling an ostrich in Mexico, rabid cows in India and losing my wedding ring down a bull’s throat, to the heavy beat of pounded punch bags was a novel experience. Did get a fair few sales though, loads of people joined the charity and no cars were broken into in the car park - so all in all, a good night.

Hay on Wye had to be the high point. The whole vibe was a league up from any talk I have ever given anywhere. Even the steward who was taking care of me was a Cambridge student studying Greek and Persian – there can only be about ten of them in the country. Needless to say, I didn’t spot a single boxer anywhere. My talk immediately preceded the Archbishop of Canterbury in the tent next door so ten minutes before I was due to finish there was a bit of impatient shuffling, but that was ok, it was good queue to wrap it up and I earned an appreciative clap at the end. All in all, that one was a winner and I left with the scent of book firmly impregnated as I headed to join the family for a whirlwind weekend at Centre Parcs. It’s all glamour as an author.

And so now I am about to embark on the publicity tour for book 2. The book is better; the talk has to be sharper. Already the anecdotes are pouring in  - I saw a woman with a goat the other day, she brought it to the surgery in the back of her car, the owner was insistent I had to blow on its neck to keep it calm. All it seemed to do was wee everywhere. Now that’s funny isn’t it? It’s needs a bit of work and isn’t exactly the story about the Gambian chimpanzee with an attitude problem or the attack dog I lost at the airport, but I am sure you can tell you are in for a treat…

Any support is hugely appreciated, http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1444721801/ref=s9_simh_gw_p14_d0_g14_... is the short weblink - and even if you don't buy it just yet, liking it on Amazon is a definite next best thing!

Tanks. Got to love them. Bet you didn't know the first tank was called 'Little Willy.' The lads must have been having a chuckle coming up with that one. Not entirely sure what Churchill would have thought broadcasting that information to the nation, but it turns out that 'Little Willy' was really just a prototype for 'Big Willy' - a beast of a machine that could cross an 8ft trench if handled right. Pretty impressive stuff. No smirking when that one came at you, and 12th February 1916, 100 'Big Willies' were commissioned into action and so began the era of the tank.

At that point, someone said enough was enough, and tank names rapidly altered to being much more business like. Worlds best tank? I hear you ask - tricky one, depends on the situation. Some would plump for the Korean K2 Black Panther, a snip at a mere $8.8million, top speed 44mph, big guns that do bad things to buildings, other tanks and people. 

Others would argue that the Germans always seem to have had a good eye for tank design - Leopard 2 looks the business and is even cheaper at only $5.5million whereas the British Challenger 2 has the most battle experience. Bit on the heavy side - 62 tonnes of meaty metal. I could go on, but you probably aren't reading by this point anyway.

As you may have guessed, one of the recent highlights in the Gamble family household these last two weeks, aside from my advanced 'chicken course' was a trip down to the Bovington Tank Museum. Noah and Sheba, aged 4 and 2 respectively, gave the Challenger a run for its money whilst baby Gideon had his eye on the Panzer in case it sprung into action. 

Personally, I'm torn between monster trucks and tanks as my favourite choice of vet vehicle and Noah and I had a long discussion about the pros and cons of this over the last few days. We have of course, designed a monster tank - Noah has equipped it with lasers. The MOD are missing a trick with this one - designs are in the post to the war office as I write and I'll even give them a discount off the first 10 orders. That would be a cool $1000million - I've decided to give a portion to WVS, could neuter a lot of stray cats with that. Of course, even with a turbo laser monster tank, catching them is still going to be a dark art - I'll keep you posted on the design modifications...

So Little Gamble number three is now nine days overdue, family Gamble are on red alert and this time next week it's all going to be different. I can't wait.

I was in a similar state of anxiety last week when I had a little drama at the petrol station en route to remove an overgrown tusk from an adult boar. The boar wasn't my primary concern, the main worry was the fact as I tried to open the petrol cap for the landrover, I realised I had somehow lost the key off my keyring to unlock it. I was almost out of fuel, I was twenty minutes late and there was a queue behind me at the pump wondering what on earth I was doing emptying out the truck at the local Total garage.

Needless to say, I couldn't find it. On the scale of things, I've been in worse situations - losing my wedding ring down a bulls throat among them - but still, I was on red, I had miles to go and if I broke down in the middle of nowhere and Cords went into labour - it was not going to be a good day.

I made it to the boar, got him sorted then managed to limp to a landrover garage. The whole art of coasting down the hills, driving like a wet blanket with the lightest of touches on the accelerator (in the hope that somehow this would conserve fuel) being perfected as I teased the beast of a 110 defender into the courtyard of the garage.

"Hello," I said as tripped over a crowbar outside the workshop.

"Yep," came the reply from a figure half submerged in a range rover sport.

"I wondered if you could help me with a slight petrol cap issue,' I began to explain.

"Too busy. You'll need to drill it out."

"No" came another voice, "You need to get a pipe clamp on it and twist it off with brute force"

"I reckon drill it" said another,

"Easy to twist them off," said a fourth man.

I looked around bewildered. I could see the second man in the workshop but the other two voices were a mystery.

"Go in the office and they can get you a new petrol cap," said the first man.

I walked round the side and sure enough, the office overlooked the workshop and behind the counter two fairly round men regarded me with a disapproving sneer. 

"£16" one of them said.

"What?" I replied.

"You'll need a new petrol cap - £16."

"Can you help me get into the tank - I'm on fresh air?" I said, handing over the notes.

"Too busy today, Monday we can do it."

"Do you have a tent?" I said.

The man looked at me unamused. 

"I'm stuck - I won't make it home let alone home and back. I'm on red, no access to get more fuel into the vehicle. Appreciate the new petrol cap but not much good if I can't get it on there." I explained.

"Just twist the lock off," he said, looking at me blankly.

"With pipe pliers," his friend added.

"One bit of kit I generally don't have in the vets truck you muppet," I wanted to shout.

Instead I stood there and looked at him.

"Sorry " he said. "Too busy today, he'll never fit you in."

I nodded and turned to go, admiring the Britsh sentiment of sorting things out for yourself. Pushing the thought of trying to commandeer the range rover sport far from my mind, I pondered whether nipping into the workshop to grab some pipe pliers could work. There was no way the large men would catch me, but the whole situation could get awkward if the land rover finally ran out of fuel about 200m away and then if Cords went into labour... it would just be hard to sort out from a police station/hospital.

Needless to say, as with most potential dramas, all was fine. I had my secret weapon - the power of the multi-tool came into its own and with a large measure of desperation, the lock broke and I got the flipping cap off. I made it to the petrol station, I made it home and here I am, full tank of fuel and ready to dash to the hospital at a moments notice. 

So two lessons learned. One is never leave home without your multi-tool. It can sort out most things when you least expect. A screw needs tightening, bottle need opening or a lock needs cracking - it's all there. I just wonder what the midwife will say when she sees it strapped to my belt in the labour ward... 

The second lesson - is don't lose your keys.

p.s. the picture of the duck is one from a family outing the other day to Stourhead. Why not. 

About two weeks ago, Caroline had the first festive emergency of the season - labrador that had eaten a Christmas bauble - all was well, the labrador was fine (bauble was not) but it served as a sharp reminder that I had to get the Christmas party sorted out.

Christmas parties are a big responsibility. The best plan I have come up with is to twist the arm of someone far more capable and organised than me to get it all arranged. Plenty of such people about and with the promise of a drop of alcohol, they get it in the bag and sorted quick as a flash. The best bit though is the secret santa. There are about 50 of us between Pilgrims, PetAir and WVS and we all throw names into a hat, people draw a name and you then have the ultimate responsibility of buying a secret santa for your chosen victim.

The great thing about it is the fact that no one knows who has bought them their present. Some people will always go safe, bottle of wine, pack of writing cards etc - others will go a bit mad - chocolate underwear for the married mother of five, inflatable bath companion for the senior vet etc. It's a lottery as to what you'll get and it can go either way - collective gasp of wonderment at the originality of the gift or polite smile as you unwrap yet another flashing tie. But this year I had the best present ever - I was given a magic hat.

Magic hats rate right up there with cloaks, capes and armour. Even more poignant was the fact I had booked a magician for the party so whenever he did a trick, I had to give a knowing smile and quick wink - suddenly being in the trade and all. I told him I had a magic hat - he didn't seem too impressed and promptly made my wedding ring disappear - but I got it back and managed to pull a foam rabbit from the depths of my new gift. Not a bad comeback I thought. They got better as the night went on and I am writing this blog with my magic hat literally inches from my grasp. I can't leave it alone - nor, as I am sure you'll appreciate, can I really talk about it in too much detail. If that labrador had been my case - you know exactly where the bauble would have turned up after surgery for example.

Anyway, I am looking forward to some serious hardcore magic this Christmas - 120 tricks worth to be exact (it has accessories) - and my family are in for a real treat. I sincerely hope anyone reading this blog also has a brilliant festive break and whilst we mustn't forget what it's all about - one thing is for sure - Father Christmas's sack is going to get a run for its money...