JK Rowling's still talking of the night she opened for me When I woke up early yesterday to a shimmering blood-orange sunrise over the North Sea, and the sound of seagulls, I had no idea where I was. Blackbird had spoken, clearly. But it took a while to work out that if it was Monday, it must be Southwold. If you have a book out, these days, you are a cross between a performing flea and a travelling salesman, and must do "events," in the hope that people will so relish the human interaction with you, the author, that they will buy a signed copy. "You must do every single book festival from Hay," said one author to me last week, "to Piddletrenthide." I am quite happy to do this, but I'm not sure the personal appearance works for most authors, because nothing seems to work for most authors any more (most can only dream of Pippa's advances, and her sales are actually quite healthy for a hardback). At every lit-fest, all the writers talk about is tanking sales and vanishing advances. Even in cashmere-clad Southwold. This town is a stone's throw from the Freud family compound of Walberswick, and has an adorable Beatrix Potter range of shops (the men's outfitters is called Thomas Traddles, and the cheese shop Nutters). There may be a historic Sailors" Reading Room, but all three indy bookshops closed last year. After my talk, more than 200 people filed out past me sitting at desk, lucky pen in hand, and I sold about 25. Yet authors are also grimly aware that some do still sell books/ebooks in their millions, so it's not all doom and gloom. Last weekend, at Lennoxlove, I was lucky enough to follow J K Rowling, a conjunction I have naturally been dining out on ever since. Jo sat signing until about 11pm after her event, and sold 1,200 books, and guess how many I sold after mine? I squealed on my return (the answer is seven). Even so, my husband insisted on keeping it even more real. "Don't worry darling," he teased. On the plus side I'm sure J K Rowling's still boasting that she's done an event with Rachel Johnson. My value for money launch party We may no longer sell many books to the reading public but authors can still punish/spoil their friends by holding launch parties. Publishers no longer pay for parties so it is even more incumbent on loyal chums to show up, and shell out, as these events are now not corporate, but personal. I held mine in the basement of a pub on Tower Bridge and the theme was Bavarian. The day before, I had an email from the writer Victoria Mather saying that as the location was so far away she was "setting orf now." Despite the roadblocks I erected, a surprising number of friends turned up, one in a Dirndl. Mather's thank-you email said: "Taxi back to Knightsbridge only £35 so a snip!" My favourite guest was Trevor Grove, the former editor of The Sunday Telegraph, who never came at all. Mrs Grove had firmly told Trevor the party was at the Tower of London. When I saw him a day later, he told me that he'd had an interesting couple of hours looking for the party in the rain at the Tower and the Beefeaters had been very helpful. And you didn't have to buy the book! I added brightly. Door-to-door burgers for fatties It's one of the most decadent and depressing things I've read all day: apparently, in the US, Burger King is now delivering burgers to people who are too lazy to waddle to their cars and get themselves to a drive-thru. Burger King is making its fast food even faster, and its customers bigger quicker. In Florida, people can now stay at home and dial a Whopper. I may be a fattist and a food snob, but this is the pits. I pray they don't "roll it out" here. Rachel Johnson's 'Winter Games" is published by Penguin Figtree £14.99