I still haven’t worked out what I should do with all six pillows I’ve been allocated. It will come to me, I suppose. And after my conversation with Ruth Downie about the minibar, I sincerely hope I won’t be charged for a whisky for each time I get my pint of milk out for a cup of tea. And I’m proud that I can cope nearly every time with my key card, even without Offspring here to help the elderly witch.
The CrimeFest organisers have provided everyone with something for their name badges, which hangs round people’s necks and makes even the toughest crime writer look like a child evacuee. Not me, as I refuse to wear it, and hence nobody knows who I am. They wouldn’t anyway.
I should be used to this by now, but I’m so struck by all these authors behaving like normal people. I had my M&S sandwich sitting on a bench outside the cathedral, thinking that the man sitting opposite me eating a sandwich looked very much like Stephen Booth. No, it can’t be. Yes, it was.
After we had both travelled all the way from Cheshire to Bristol, Kate Ellis and I had a chat in the lounge about her writing. I’ve enjoyed Kate’s Wesley Peterson novels, set in Devon, for years, but always managed to miss her wherever she’s been.
One little gripe would be about Blackwell’s, who sell the books here. They don’t take book tokens. I rarely pay for books these days, so the opportunity to use a book token doesn’t often come along. And it didn’t here, either. There are many ways of losing a customer, and I’d say this counts as one.
After a long day’s listening to panels on various aspects of crime, I found myself having dinner with nine people I’d never met before, and only one of whom, Declan Burke, I knew at all. I strongly suspect he had something to do with the four tealights that turned up along with my dessert, and I know for a fact that Daughter had something to do with it as well.
Lovely people. I even acquired a temporary Argentinian granny from Oklahoma, thanks to a not entirely sober man who claimed to be from Edinburgh. Not with that Glaswegian accent, I’d say.
This seems to be more about food than literature, but as it’s a Saturday, who cares?