London, Editor, Train, etc
Yes, I made it to London.* Yes, I met my new editor. Yes, I am wholly and unutterably brain dead. YES MY NEW CAMERA COMES TOMORROW. **
But you know the really important thing? There was a WHIPPET on the train.
I was galloping, panting***, up the stairs to the London track and she was doing her Statue of a Classic Hound posture at the top—See Me, Worship Me—while the boring human with her was fishing for the ticket that would let them through the automated gate. I didn’t mean to follow them into the same car, but I couldn’t help myself. Whippet! It’s a whippet! The train was pretty full, so when the seat behind them was empty I sat in it.† The boring human took her—the whippet’s: the boring human was male—coat off, laid it on the seat, she jumped up, lay down, and that was it for the rest of the journey. I kept thinking about my guys, who would be trying to mug all the other passengers. While we were in the queue at Waterloo I did ask the perfectly nice young man in a hoodie—no one is really worthy of a whippet—if she was always this good, and he said she’d been sick first time but was used to it now. And she trotted off serenely behind him on a loose lead. I adore my hellhounds, but next time I want one of those. ††
I had decided that given how crotchety the ME has been lately that I would take the morning slowly and go up just to have my cup of tea with my editor.††† But by the time the frelling train finally got there I went snorting off the platform and sprinted across the pedestrian bridge in sheer fury.‡ Penguin UK is just about around the corner from Charing Cross—which is where the pedestrian bridge from Waterloo leaves you—so I went soaring in there and was awarded with a visitor’s badge that said ‘Robym McKinley’ but fortunately no one examined it too closely.
And my editor and I seem to have spent two hours talking about life and the universe. If this was supposed to be a business meeting I think I just lost. But she’s from New Zealand, so we had a lot to discuss about living in a strange foreign country that sort of speaks your language but not really. (You can tell she’s not from around here just as you can tell I’m not.) And we bonded over the excellence of British sausages.
I offer you photographic evidence that I have spent some time with someone recently.
Couldn't resist this framing. The black wall is covered with framed books of Penguin's classic past. This one just happened to be well placed.
That’s one of the fabulous little cardigans Peter gave me for Christmas.‡‡ Oh, and that’s also the black denim mini. You’ll have to take my word for it: the full-length photos didn’t come out. I hadn’t quite officially given up wearing it and then—I tweeted about this—the GUARDIAN magazine last weekend, in its fashion section, had a photo of an OLD WOMAN WEARING A MINI. I couldn’t find an on line link so I just had to shout about it. And maybe wear one. Now that I know it’s a trend. ‡‡‡
* * *
* In spite of the thirty-five minutes about halfway that the train sat in a siding. This seems to happen to me a lot.^ Have I mentioned that they put the fares up again? Return/round trip to Waterloo now costs over forty quid. But no extra charge for unscheduled halts.
^ At least I could get a signal on Pooka this time. But I was in a Quiet Car—no tech noise—so I had to text. Hey! I’ve learnt to text. The fellow in the seat behind me said sharply to the conductor, Who is that playing music? This is a quiet car! Tell them to stop. —There was a pause, and the conductor said (politely) that he hadn’t noticed anyone, but he’d be walking through the car again and would check. I strained my ears and . . . okay, yes, if you’re positively exerting yourself in your desire for trouble you could just about barely hear that slight hissy noise of someone’s earphones overflowing. Barely. I was expecting this fellow to reach his arm through the armrest gap, grasp me hardily, and demand I stop with that over-loud screen tapping.
** Or better had, anyway. Which means I have to get up tomorrow morning and wait quivering by the door. And I do NOT want to lie awake tonight in a fever of dreadful anticipation. The washing machine man comes tomorrow too. Speaking of dreadful anticipation.
*** I had FINISHING THE HAT with me—the Sondheim book—it’s bigger than a laptop. It’s bigger than this laptop. It’s probably about four times the size of my little travelling laptop, which I left behind. Even one of my knapsacks can stretch only so far. Not to mention the stress fractures, and the making of holes in the pavement if you step carelessly.
† The bloke with the oversensitive ears and the bad attitude was already wedged into his corner, curled up like one of Ali Baba’s would-be thieves practising for his jar. Yes, of course I wondered what his story was. But asking didn’t seem like a good idea.
†† Yes, I know, he’d clearly put serious training into her. But some dogs are naturally maniacs. Our previous generation was a lot calmer than the incumbents. Given that the grandchildren were little during the foregoing tenure, this is a good thing.
††† The first thing that happened was that I cut myself without noticing and got blood all over my white shirt. And then I may have mentioned the train sitting in a siding for thirty-five minutes . . . but that was only after we’d been drifting and stopping and drifting and stopping for a while. We were finally fifty minutes late. Good thing I wasn’t going to the opera. It was still not good for the blood pressure. I kept looking at the whippet having a nice snooze and not worrying about train schedules. Or cups of tea with editors.
‡ It’s kind of . . . interesting, having an adrenaline jag when your ME is in the ascendant. You’re not supposed to have adrenaline jags when you have ME: one of the reasons you have ME is that your adrenals are exhausted. I have no idea what the chemistry of the thing is, but I can tell you it feels like being taken over by an alien force, a Goa’uld, or some kind of zombie possession thing: you know you are only marginally registering as alive, your entire body is made of bubble wrap and perished rubber bands^ and your brain is old grey soap suds and wet talcum powder . . . and suddenly you’re boiling down the street leaping over slow pushchairs/strollers and zapping past gangs of hearty young men.^^ I confess to being a little worried what I’m going to pay for this tomorrow. . . .
^ Aaaaaand you’re carrying a knapsack that weighs about a third what you do. But it’s very comforting when you’re sitting in a siding wondering if your train is ever going to move again, knowing that you have several days’ worth of reading material with you+, and your second-worst preoccupation—the first being whether your texts are getting through to the person you’re supposed to be meeting for a cup of tea—is how you’re going to recharge your iPhone if you’re here that long.
+ Maybe I need to think harder about that ereader. I haven’t even quite put Kindle on Pooka yet. Don’t you sprain your finger, scrolling, if you try to read something on a screen that small?
^^ Who are way too cool to do any more than amble anyway. Not to mention being physically incapable of doing any more than amble in those trousers with the crotches around the knees.
‡‡ But doesn’t recognise when I wear it.
‡‡‡ Like I have ever in my life paid attention to a trend. Well, I may if I like it.
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