Invited to talk about Interpreters at Jewish Book Week, I was answering some introductory questions about my first novel when, a few minutes into the interview, I became aware of a commotion in the audience. “What’s she doing talking about The Cloths of Heaven?” hissed an angry woman four rows from the front.  “I didn’t come here to hear about Africa!”  This was followed by much rustling of papers. “See!” she said, thrusting the programme under her neighbour’s nose, “she’s meant to be talking about another book entirely.”  In the event, that proved to be much less disconcerting than trying to take my leg off and put it on again at St Pancras station on the way home, with my ever obliging publisher shielding me from the commuters’ view with her coat.