The street where I live
Jan. 20th, 2011 11:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
desperanceSo I was walking in to the Lit & Phil, through the deep frost of a city morning; and I was thinking mildly about the work that lay ahead of me today, and I was singing "The Street Where You Live" because I can do that, I can multitask (or else I can't, and I just think singing is easier than thinking: you decide); and I was stopped by a man in his middle years, clutching a bundle into which we will not enquire.
"Are you an author?" he demanded.
"Why, yes," quoth I. "Yes, I am."
"Did I see you in The Guardian, three years ago?"
Almost certainly not, in honesty; it was more likely The Newcastle Journal three months ago, but let's not quibble. I allowed as how that was possible.
"Are you a millionaire?"
"Why, no," quoth I. "I live in Fenham."
He grunted, as though that were some kind of non sequitur rather than an absolute declaration of my financial embarrassment, and went on. "What you want to do, you want to get yourself on Radio 5 Live. Phone them up. Tell them you've got something interesting to talk about..."
And so on. And on. This was how I'd sell another twenty thousand copies and make myself a million. He was very specific. He might of course be right, though if he followed his own advice he dressed to disguise it; but I am of course not going to do that. Telephones and me are a non-starter. It's an established disadvantage.
Anyway, it was very kind of him to bother (I think he crossed the street specifically to pass on his advices). I have a whole list of people who stop me in the street: there's the local animal lady (seven dogs, seventeen cats at last count) who wants me to write her life story, there's the man who advised me to get to India before I was thirty or else I'd never make it (I am now 52, and he's proved right so far), there's the butcher who used to be a security guard who wanted to arrest me for shoplifting until his boss pointed out that I wasn't a thief, I was an author...
Like that. Actually I rather like where I live. Even if they do interrupt mysinging thinking.
"Are you an author?" he demanded.
"Why, yes," quoth I. "Yes, I am."
"Did I see you in The Guardian, three years ago?"
Almost certainly not, in honesty; it was more likely The Newcastle Journal three months ago, but let's not quibble. I allowed as how that was possible.
"Are you a millionaire?"
"Why, no," quoth I. "I live in Fenham."
He grunted, as though that were some kind of non sequitur rather than an absolute declaration of my financial embarrassment, and went on. "What you want to do, you want to get yourself on Radio 5 Live. Phone them up. Tell them you've got something interesting to talk about..."
And so on. And on. This was how I'd sell another twenty thousand copies and make myself a million. He was very specific. He might of course be right, though if he followed his own advice he dressed to disguise it; but I am of course not going to do that. Telephones and me are a non-starter. It's an established disadvantage.
Anyway, it was very kind of him to bother (I think he crossed the street specifically to pass on his advices). I have a whole list of people who stop me in the street: there's the local animal lady (seven dogs, seventeen cats at last count) who wants me to write her life story, there's the man who advised me to get to India before I was thirty or else I'd never make it (I am now 52, and he's proved right so far), there's the butcher who used to be a security guard who wanted to arrest me for shoplifting until his boss pointed out that I wasn't a thief, I was an author...
Like that. Actually I rather like where I live. Even if they do interrupt my