As an entrepreneur and small publisher you need many skills. In fact you have to play the all-rounder. From deal brokering techniques, via editing skills to spreadsheet expertise – you should be perfect and move with ease. Ideally.

It’s the art of spreadsheeting that causes lady-like perspiration. Now, don’t get me wrong. I pride myself in my own competence. After all, I operate an impressive monthly spreadsheet where I record in detail Peirene’s outgoings and earnings.

However, once a year around this time, I reach my limits. The royalty statements are due to foreign publishers, agents and the Peirene authors. Three spreadsheets have to be amalgamated – from our book distributor, ebook distributor and my own spreadsheet with the subscription, stall and website sales. And that’s not all. They then have to be divided by individual titles. Frankly, when I set up Peirene, I didn’t reckon with this. And once a year I shed bitter tears of frustration.

Luckily I have a spreadsheet superman living with me. My husband. He loves them. And I love him when he helps me with the Peirene royalty statements.

But this year there will soon be even more love in the air. Authors will be delighted this week when they receive our statements. Payments are coming their way. We’ve done well last year. In fact the spreadsheet shows that each year we are doing a little better. Our brand is working its magic. The Nymph is a rising star.

‘Thank you.’ Peirene smiles at me. ‘I guess that means a  pay rise for me. A rising star can’t dress in last year’s fashion.’

I pause before answering. I don’t like to disappoint. But I have to. ‘Paying out royalties makes the authors happy. However, we will experience a temporary cash flow issue.’

The Nymph pulls a face.

‘Anyway,’ I continue, trying to cheer her up. ‘Judging by the snow and ice outside, spring will be late this year. So no need to rush to buy a summery wardrobe.’ The Nymph leaves the office muttering that small publishers who can’t manage spreadsheets shouldn’t even try to deliver weather forecasts.

A triumphant queen returns to the shores from which she sat sails many moons ago. Crowds cheer, flags fly, the queen lifts her hand waving graciously. I imagine Mick Jagger returning to the LSE or Bill Gates being honoured at Harvard. That was me last Wednesday at 16.30pm as I was coming out of Euston tube station, heading towards my old college.

SOAS, where I studied from 1987 to 1992, had invited me back to give a talk about publishing as part of their Writing Week. I had already been interviewed for their student magazine ten days ago.

As I walked along Euston Road, I pictured myself standing at the podium in the main auditorium looking into a packed audience of eager, young faces ready to receive the wisdom of a mature alumna. I imagined a couple of my old professors sitting in the audience too. They had recognized my name on the programme and now wanted to see what had become of their former student.

At the reception I was pointed in the direction of Room 406, one of the smaller, dimly lit classrooms. Fair enough, I thought to myself, better to have a small, well-populated kingdom, than to address an amphitheatre with empty seats. My talk was scheduled for 17.00. At five past two students appeared. By quarter past  four more joined but one left as soon as I started to talk.

‘So, no red carpet for you,’ Peirene of course can’t avoid teasing me the next day.

‘Nope.’

‘A waste of time then?’

Well not quite. I quickly jettisoned my speech, gathered my five acolytes around me and engaged in a conversation. We discussed the art of translation, how to set up your own business and the importance of marketing.

‘It doesn’t sound like your students wasted their time,’ Peirene remarks. I look at her in surprise. It’s rare to receive a compliment from her.

But she is right. And what’s more I was given a master class in the thoughts and concerns of students as they enter the job-market. I will manage Peirene interns better as result of my hour at SOAS. As Mick Jagger already sang ‘You can’t always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you need’.

The beauty of blind spots is, you can’t see them in the mirror. On others, of course, you spot them from afar.

I am good at detecting blemishes in other women.

A few months ago my daughter’s school sent out an email asking parents to present their professions at a school’s career fair for their 6^th form pupils. A brilliant initiative from the school and a great opportunity for pupils to gain insight into different career paths. I signed up.

The evening took place in the big sports hall. The professions were divided into sections. As a publisher my stand was in media. I was busy talking all evening and only at the end did I have time to look around. With the exception of a young woman in the property section, two ladies in the teaching department and myself, all the other professionals were represented by men. I was so surprised that I even checked the name list of the exhibitors in case some of the women might have left early. That wasn’t the case.

I know mothers in the school who are practicing lawyers, doctors, marketing directors, actors, writers. Where were they? Of course one could argue that working mothers have to rush home at the end of the day to cook dinner. And some might have had prior engagements. But these are women who have daughters at the school. I assume they – like me –hope their daughters will one day combine career and family. Why didn’t they take this opportunity to show their daughters how it is done?

I have my own favourite explanation: Women still find it difficult to value their career as part of their identity and therefore struggle to represent it to the outside world.

I am not one of these women, I thought, as I walked home padding myself smugly on the back.

Well… pride comes before the fall.

Increasingly for the last twelve months I have been invited to join panel discussions and give talks. I like speaking publicly, so initially I said yes without hesitation. I became aware that on some of these occasions others were paid and I was not.  At first I thought it’s because my fellow speakers are better, more famous, more professional. Then I felt a little hurt. Eventually, Peirene put me straight:

“You have to ask.” She stated dryly.

“I don’t like to ask.”

“Then you don’t value your own worth.”

The words hit home. This week I had an opportunity to test Peirene’s theory. And to no surprise it worked. I will be paid the same fee as the other speaker.

“You owe me a thank you,” Peirene whispers into my ear.

I am grateful to the Nymph for mercilessly pointing out my blind spots.