Another perfect day
I missed my train.
You will remember that I was going to London for the bookstore signing today. Hellhounds and I had our first proper walk in several days this morning* and then we came home and I hared round pulling everything off the clothes racks in the attic and hauling it downstairs and dumping it on the bed while I decided what I was going to wear to this momentous event.**
I had allowed lots of time. Lots. Which is not my modus operandi as you know. Driving to the station I was even singing.*** And then I got there and the car park I always use was full. It’s never full after 4 pm. Never. It was full today.
The big multi-storey across the street has been closed for renovation so long it’s become a very large piece of modern art.† That left several car parks I didn’t have time to walk back from and . . . The Station Car Park.
In the first place, the station car park is always full. It’s full at midnight. In the second place, I have history with the station car park.†† It was there that three years or so ago in an access of joy at seeing an empty space across the tarmac from me I turned sharply . . . and ran over a bollardy thing about eighteen inches high that I had no way of seeing, but which nonetheless took out the rear door on that side with no harm to itself. I–we, because Peter was with me–went to London anyway and the car was even still there when we got back, although as I recall Peter had to sit in back holding the door shut while I drove home (slowly)†††
And then there’s the fact that the station ticket meters are all possessed by demons. Even when you’ve managed to find a space to leave your car you have to be tortured by at least one meter if not two or three. They have a variety of stratagems: there’s the No, We Aren’t Accepting Any Coins Today, when you have the temerity to attempt to insert one, and it doesn’t go, and you think, is there some other slot to put coins in? And you try again, and you try a different coin . . . and eventually you start screaming, and then you move on to another machine. Then there’s the No We Don’t Like That One Give Us Another One, where every coin you put in instantly falls through, and pretty soon you don’t have any more coins to try, especially because the car park costs £257.35 and only takes coins.‡ And then there’s the Loggerhead Stratagem, which is when however many coins you put in, none of them either register or fall through Today’s adventure was mostly the last named with some of the second and a little of the first thrown in.
I spent a good ten minutes wrestling with the damn machine. I think it ate a few coins along the way: I sure didn’t seem to have as many at the end as I started with. Eventually I wrote a note saying I CAN’T GET YOUR MACHINE TO WORK and left it on the dashboard . . . and sprinted ‡‡ And saw my train pulling away from the station as I flung open the door.
Southwest Trains keeps changing its mind about whether you can buy a ticket on board or not. At present we’re in a If You Don’t Have A Valid Ticket When You Board We’re Gonna Fine Your Ass, which is extremely boring, because you may get there with fifteen minutes lead time, but only one ticket window open, and a queue that stretches to Calais.‡‡‡ This happened to me the last time I went up to London, to see Hannah.§
So, today, I bought a train ticket, from a machine.§§ Then I went and found a staff person and poured out my woeful story and he shook his head and said it was very bad and that I was likely to come back and find my car clamped. OH GODS. That’s just what I’m going to want, and cope well with, coming home late and brain-fried from an Author Appearance.
But All Is Not Lost (I Hope). He sold me a car park ticket . . . and then kept it, with the registration number§§§, which he said he would pass on. He said it very convincingly too, so while I write this in the train going home again I am reasonably hopeful of having an unclamped car when I arrive. . . .
The problem with Author Appearances is that I go into Full Public Mode and the me that all of you know, and who has some resemblance to my concept of real life, closes down and goes away for a while until she/I hears the all-clear and she/I/we sneak back and have a cautious look round before settling in again. I think it went okay, barring the ‘the person we’re all here for is late‘ aspect, although I suppose you could call that Making An Entrance. It’s a tiny store, so the–twenty? Maybe? Did anyone count?–people who were there made it look really packed full. Whew. Someone came. Upon request I read a bit aloud from CHALICE and from SUNSHINE¤ and I therefore failed to mention that I’d come prepared to read aloud from work in progress.¤¤ Then I answered a few questions, all of which have entirely escaped being copied into memory–except for the one about why I haven’t gone on with the Damar series, which was memorable for the fact that everyone who reads the blog moaned, and immediately crouched down and assumed the ‘crash’ position–and then I signed books. I signed rather a lot of books, since everyone who came seems to have brought their library with them.
Have I said here that signing books is the one thing about Author Appearances that I know I can do? Most of that relating to your audience thing I find rather risky and alarming, but I feel I know where I am signing books. And I positively like signing ancient falling-apart books, and people with ancient falling-apart copies of lots of my books are my friends. But not every writer feels this way–especially the seriously famous, the ones who have been writing a book a year for the last forty years, and those with tendonitis. None of this applies to me. I am happy to sign books as long as there are books to sign. But you might want to check first, next author signing you go to.
. . . And at this point I nearly missed getting off the train. Sigh. Well, I was writing, you see, even if it was only a blog entry, and I seem to have missed noticing the previous station altogether, and then I began to have a slightly twitchy feeling like maybe I’d been on this familiar train about long enough and I looked at my watch and EEEEEEK. Have you noticed how slowly computers close down? However I am now in a position to say categorically that the car was not clamped, and I didn’t run over any bollards either. And hellhounds were very glad to see me and had eaten their dinner.
And at this point I am going to bed. Having carefully neglected to identify any specific blog people in attendance this evening. Well, that’s up to you. I can still say embarrassing things tomorrow, depending on how revealing anyone’s comments are tonight. The thing is, I can delete you, but you can’t delete me very well.¤¤¤
* * *
* I do not like sick hellhounds. It upsets me. The walk we took today is probably our current Basic Walk, the one we take whenever I can’t think of anything else, which is to say three times a week or so. And it felt like years since we’d last done it.
** Including whether or not I was going to say the hell with it, no one was ever arrested for being mutton dressed as lamb, and wear the black denim mini. Yes. I officially gave up wearing it some time after I passed fifty, but every now and then I come all over funny and decide I have to wear it again in a totemic sort of way. I don’t think there are any photos however. I was wearing my full-length wide-boy black leather coat and when I wasn’t, I was hiding behind a desk. The pale-pink climbing-rose All Stars were fairly visible however. Mutton dressed as slightly mad lamb.
*** I sing now, you know. But I have to sing in the car because I haven’t got a shower. The resonances are really not as good.
† Representing the Failure of Modern Transport
†† [klutzim alert]
††† Possibly the only car jackers working that day were solo and hadn’t come prepared to tie doors shut
‡ If you see someone all bent over and jangling, they’re probably planning on parking at the train station some time soon.
‡‡ Thus discovering that my brand-new climbing-rose All Stars are very comfortable, thank you
‡‡‡ There’s this little pontoon bridge. . . .
§ . . . and I said, so, fine me, got on the train . . . and nobody asked for my ticket. This is not in fact as brilliant as it sounds A return–a round trip–has been known to cost less than a single (one way). And this meant I had to stand in the queue at Waterloo on my way home . . . and I nearly missed that train as a result.
§§ And it worked. They’re slipping.
§§§ Okay, I get points for this. He asked for my plate number and of course my mind instantly went blank. Numbers . . . letters . . . uh. But I remembered my insurance form. I not only remembered it, it was right where it ought to be. And it has the number plate number on it. Yaay.
¤ And the request wasn’t for vampires or undead unsex but for food^
^ Word spellcheck objects to ‘undead’ but not to ‘unsex’.
¤¤ Heh heh heh. PEGASUS or the short-short story for the new WATER. Heh.
¤¤¤ Well I am going to mention Hazel! Hazel is adorable! I want one! I’m sure she and the hellhounds would get along famously! She might even inspire Chaos to take to training! She also makes me wish I had girls again since I don’t think I’m going to try pink feather boas on the hellhounds! Hmmm . . . black, though. Silver? Purple?
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