Fearsome Things
FIRST THINGS FIRST. There have been several wistful queries on the forum, Facebook and via email, about the London signing: can you bring copies of my books that you already own for signature? On the understanding that you will also buy a copy of PEGASUS at the store, YES. As to how many other titles you can bring . . . well, be a little restrained. I don’t myself mind all that much—I’m pretty good at signing my name, and I’m not JK Rowling or Stephenie Meyer and I’m not likely to have damaging numbers of readers show up with shopping bags of books—but if the queue is long, expect to have fewer extra titles signed, and if the queue is short I’ll sign ’em all and the cake boxes.*
There’s also an interesting conversation on the forum about suitable clothing for this peak London season event. Ajlr is going to get the diamante pink catsuit back from the Folies Bergere understudy who was called up for duty unexpectedly**, and I, in an expression of solidarity with the mod who is dedicated to making this event unique, have offered to wear the black leather mini.*** We will, however, need support.† There may even be a dressing up to the nines competition if we can figure out how to do it without frightening the horses.††
* * *
Meanwhile . . . I had another of my Silly Adventures today. Oisin was going to be playing in a music festival halfway across the frelling planet no no no no only a (relatively) few miles down the road. Except that I hate motorway† driving. Hate. Hate. I especially hate anything to do with the MfortysixthousandandtwelvewithTEETH which was going to be involved if I was going to get to Dranglefabbingford in less than three days with obligatory Sherpa accompaniment. Oisin had given me directions so I knew that at least theoretically this was something I could do.
So I set out with trepidation and lots of spare time to get lost in. And the first thing that happened was that the slip road on to the MfortysixthousandandtwelvewithTEETH was backed up to the roundabout most of a mile away where you have to choose to get on the slip road. . . . The temptation to hang a left and go to London three days early for the frelling party was very strong.††† However the thought of eight legs, four pleading golden eyes and two whipping tails stopped me. Thus do critters make fools/responsible adults of us all.‡
The problem with traffic jams is that they’re difficult to knit during. A known long stoplight is the perfect two-row activity. A traffic jam when you may be expected to surge forward another five feet or fifty yards at any moment is not. I did not produce my best work. On the other hand, I didn’t jump out of Wolfgang, yank out an overpass stanchion, and start beating to death the moron in the SUV at the head of the queue either, so I feel it was a worthwhile trade-off.
When I finally got on the MwhatsitwithTEETH I was immediately surrounded by gigantic gurning lorries, so I could neither change lanes nor read any of the road signs. ARRRRGH. I recognised enough bits of the passing countryside however to make a break for freedom at the right moment, got off the godsblasted motorway . . . and then of course became instantly, astonishingly lost in the eleven-dimensional super-reality that is village Hampshire. HECATE ON A POGO STICK. GAAAAAAH.
I arrived at last, more by luck than judgement. And then for my next trick I got to try and find the festival parking. You get to the T-junction in the middle of Dranglefabbingford and you know where you are and are about to burst into tears of joy when . . . you notice that that sign for parking is to the right when (according to your directions) the church with the organ in it that you’ve come to hear Oisin play is to the left. As you hopelessly turn right, you glance back over your shoulder and . . . yup . . . there’s the church. Diminishing in your rear view mirror.
The parking is a very, very, very long way away from the church. Very. It’s also across a very large, very lumpy field that probably seemed like a perfectly good plan for the parking last year when they were organising the practical details, and before we had three months of drought followed by three weeks of solid, gravity-enhanced rainfall. My next car is going to have four-wheel drive. ‡‡
I got out of Wolfgang and looked around dubiously. Fortunately there were other cars boing-boinging across the field and coming to muddy, juddering halts on either side of me, lending credence to the idea that possibly there was a music festival‡‡‡ and this was the parking. I was now completely lost again. It’s all very well that I managed to follow the signs successfully, but WHERE had they led me? I addressed myself to the elegant gentleman getting out of the car to my right. I was somewhat comforted by his aura of bewilderment and mild outrage. And then we found out we were both there because we knew Oisin, and decided to combine forces in our quest to refind the frelling festival church before either the concert was over with or we died of exposure.
. . . I was the only person knitting. And, just like at the opera, I had several people say, oh, what a good idea!, and ask me what I was making. (Er . . . ) The problem with the concert, I’m embarrassed to admit, which we did arrive in time for, is that I’m now used to Salisbury Cathedral in Oisin’s music studio, on his electronic megamonster. This was a quaint little old organ in a little old church§ and you kind of wanted to pat it on its beautiful etched pipes and hand-fitted cabinet and say there, there, very nice, dear.
Oh yes and when I left the church afterward I had no grangblatting idea where the car park was.
I got home. I hurtled hounds. I went to tower practise. I rang Grandsire Triples (more or less). And I have HOOKED A NEW HANDBELL RECRUIT.§§ Mwa hahahahaha. Ask me again next Thursday§§§. Survival rates vary.
* * *
* I believe there will be details about the cake aspect soon.
** Ajlr lives in a very interesting neighbourhood. And clearly herself has a very interesting past.
*** From my interesting past.
† Stop that sniggering.
†† Okay, I know I’m old, do people still use Mrs Patrick Campbell’s all-purposes quote, Does it really matter what people do, so long as they don’t do it in the streets and frighten the horses?^ The original reference was to illicit canoodling, but it has much wider applications. And I think a pink diamante catsuit—with feathers—might very well frighten the horses.
^ A quick riffle through the internet produces three different versions, but this is the drift.
† Highway.
††† There are yarn shops in London.
‡ Peter would cope. The hellhounds, however, would go into Tragedy Mode, which would be hard on Peter.
‡‡ I did snicker a little at the thought of all those standard music-festival goers arriving in their Mercedes and BMWs, looking at the field, and having the vapours.
‡‡‡ Or anyway something to attend.
§ I was tempted to go up during the break and examine the space between the benches and the screen in the choir stalls, but I didn’t want to force Oisin to pretend he didn’t know me.
§§ Poor, poor, poor woman.
§§§ We’re having a special early practise this week to get it in before Peter and I go grab some culture. We weren’t going to meet this week because Colin is gone and I was cinema-theatring, but you don’t want to give your novice time to change her mind.
comments
Please join the discussion at Robin McKinley's Web Forum.