wonderful report from a wonderful week
Another week, another book festival. Another twelve hour stopover in my own house. Another frantic scramble to find enough clean socks to make it through ’til Friday. Another futile attempt to coerce my plants back to life with a half-hearted weekly water. Another scenic run up the M1. Another attempt to pre-think exactly which short story collections I will want to refer to in my workshops which inevitably ends in brain muddle and the decision to just bring all the books in the world with me anyway. Inevitably I will cart all the books in the world about in Tesco bags for life, (bag for lives?), for the duration of the week, putting my shoulder out and never once referring to any of them, all the time quietly confident that if a question about Bridget Jones’ Diary or Faulkner or The Da Vinci Code were to come up, I’d be…
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