desperance

I was - as so often these days - the embodiment of virtue yesterday. I did much work at home, and then I went into the Lit and Phil to do more work there, for in addition to my writings (My writings. Let me show you them) I am currently proofreading a book about the mentoring process within creative writing. It is, beyond doubt, both timely and useful; unhappily, it makes my eyes bleed. Like all how-to books, it comes from the brutalist school of literature: utterly concrete slabs of prose with no personality, entirely unnuanced. I struggle, but endure; I'm halfway through, and I really need to finish it today. Which means taking it to the Lit & Phil this morning, buying lunch en route and just not quitting till it's done, probably this evening. Aaargh...!

However. To resume:

Gail came to find me about half-five, and we decanted to the pub across the road. Where we drank a bottle of wine, and then another; for we had time to kill, and we had earned it. Then we went up to Waterstone's, for an event.

Where. I spoke to. John Lahr. And Ian McKellen. And Armistead Maupin.

John was there because Ian was, and Ian was there because Armistead was; it was Armistead's gig.

And I had words of them all. Eek!