Getting Published

'I hear,' says Mrs Slocombe, as she and Mrs Pumphrey stop for a tea break during the construction of the new Malarkey Manor Herb garden, 'that Sally Bercow is writing a novel.'
'Who is Sally Bercow?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Gingernut?'
'Blonde, I think,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'I mean, would you like a biscuit?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'Oh, yes, right, thank you,' says Mrs Slocombe, and takes two - one for each beak.
'So who is this Sally Burko?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'It's not 'burk,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'It's 'berc.'
'What's the difference?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'A cow, basically,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'She's the wife of the Squeaker of the House of Commons.'
'Ah,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'The Squeaker, eh? Sounds important. And his wife is writing a novel, you say?'
'Yes,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'A bonk-buster, no less.'

Mrs Pumphrey contemplates this literary revelation. 'Do you think it'll be published?' she says.
'Well, 'says Mrs Slocombe, 'there's the thing. I mean, it's very difficult to get published these days. Especially if it's your first novel. And a bonk buster. Ask Denise. She'll tell you.'
'Poor Sally,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Do you think she's aware of the challenges ahead? Of the endless rejections by agents and publishers, of the heartache of slaving for hours and days and months, nay years over a script only to have it cruelly flung aside by a fickle world who wants guaranteed sales so will only take on work by famous people no matter how talentless, brainless, shoddy and dire their work is, because the British public will only buy sensationalist clap-trap to satisfy their thirst for the shallowness of celebrity?'
'Blimey,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'You have a very hot finger on the pulse of publishing, don't you?'
'I try to keep up,' says Mrs Pumphrey.

There is a pause in the conversation whilst the two herb garden navvies survey their footings and wonder at how the huge pile of dirt that has manifested itself besides the footings ever fitted in the footings hole in the first place. And more importantly, what they were going to do with the aforementioned pile of dirt.

'So will the wife of the Squeaker of the House of Commons get close to achieving her publishing dream, do you think?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
Mrs Slocombe looks at her, thoughtfully.
'I doubt it,' she says. 'She's probably way too talented.'