they said. We don’t know why, but mostly obeyed. The dog touched us though, so it had perhaps not had the memo. It was a nice looking dog, as was the other one at the party.
Because it was a party. The 60th birthday of Fledgling’s Clare, and along with many members of her family, some booky types had been invited, and we huddled in one corner, along with the dog. Helen Grant and Kirkland Ciccone had arrived at the same time, one trying to gain entrance at the front and the other at the back. (It’s not easy for us country types, arriving in the big city.) I was next, and simply followed the lady at the pedestrian crossing. Bearing both flowers and a gift bag she was clearly in the know. Then it was Alex Nye, who had chosen a different [again] route to the house.
There was much food. Kirkland said he was there to eat. I restrained myself – a little – but needed Helen Grant’s longer arm to reach the sweet stuff.
I chatted a bit to my new friend from the pedestrian crossing, explaining – when she asked – that Kirkie writes strange books.
We all agreed that leaving by six would be good, and seeing how the others had arranged their outward journeys I offered to take them away in my taxi. One for all and all that. It’s complicated booking taxis… I was awfully afraid that I had accidentally asked them to come to a Perth address, but after hanging about on the pavement, there the cab was. So not Perth after all.
The literary conversation flowed better with less background competition. Foreign books are the way to go. Or historical crime. By happy coincidence we all required the same train from Waverley, and with my sharp elbows we even got seats together. It was clearly a popular time to leave Edinburgh. One by one we disembarked, saying we really need to meet up more often, what with our literaryness not always being appreciated by our near and dear ones.
Maybe I can stop agonising about when to arrive if we do. I worked so hard at not being too early, only to find that the others were there already. Except for Philip and Lady Caveney who are so cool they arrived when we left… (It’s understanding how much party there is going to be. A bit like the length of string.)
And whatever you do, don’t hand your mobile to Kirkie. He might just delete your photo.
The Occasional Bookwitch 