Today I have written for The Times about who I am and why I did... all this.
*waves generally at screen*
There might be some of you who'd rather I stayed anonymous, and no doubt one or two who'll be thinking: "Oh, that's ruined the fun."
Well, sorry about that. My name is known enough that if I didn't out myself someone else would, and they'd almost certainly make a hash of it.
And do you know what? This is my story - it should have my byline.
Added to which the publishers of my book have a right to expect me to help them sell it, because otherwise there'd be no point in my writing the thing. It would be silly to do all the publicity from inside a paper bag.
And if you weren't expecting this day to come then I was. From Belle de Jour to Banksy, anonymity never holds: it's not a way of life.
You might not believe this, but I do not enjoy being centre stage. I don't like my picture being taken and always prefer to go under the radar. Partly that's my nature and partly it's being a newspaper reporter, but for whatever reason I always tailgate people through doorways rather than use the intercom, even when I've been invited, just because it's easier.
So I feel a bit anxious about this next stage. I expect there'll be some trolls too, but I'll cope with them and their dreadful spelling.
Rest assured that nothing else will change; The Fox abides. I will carry on doing what I have been up to now and there is no reason for our fun to end, as far as I can see.
So if you want to know why I don't like Cheryl Tweedy, all about that spat with Jemima Khan, and the problem with hotel mini-bars, you can read all about it online or do the old-fashioned thing and pop down the shop to buy a copy of The Times.
And with that, I'm out.
I suppose a mardi gras is out of the question?