One of the popular misconceptions about publishing is that it’s a boozy profession, consisting of a succession of long, three martini lunches, and late nights at The Groucho Club with a credit card behind the bar.
Well I hate to disillusion you, but it’s not a misconception - it's all true.
Not so much the Private Members’ Clubs – except for the higher echelons when entertaining authors - and not so much vodka at lunchtime, unless, like me, you go home and absent-mindedly take your multivitamin with a glass you find by the sink and then discover it doesn’t contain water. (I live with my kids. My kids have parties that end when I’m getting up. Accidents happen.)
However, certainly hangovers after work nights out are worn next morning as bonding badges of honour (who can forget the great Louisa Karaoke Evening?) And when we decide to push the party boat out after a book launch or a leaving do, what often begins as a sedate bottle of white in the Boardroom to celebrate say - the launch of Graham Rawle’s magnificently dark and wonderful The Wizard of Oz - becomes a mass office exodus to The Perseverence in Lamb’s Conduit Street, from which I teeter unsteadily at around 8.30 having dined on two bags of Cheese and Onion Crisps, purchased for me by none other than the esteemed author himself. Ah yes, rubbing shoulders with the literati - it's a classy life.
I then make my way home, with a slight detour about which we will not talk about here, and arrive at the house at about 2am when I go directly upstairs, without passing go, and without either collecting a glass of water or saying hello to the assembled rabble offspring who have been up since around three pm raiding the fridge and are now busy, variously assembling teams to win the Championship League in FIFA 2009, or slaughtering orks or whatever in Warcraft, or watching My Super Sweet 16 Marathons while I’ve been at that novelty activity called:
Well I hate to disillusion you, but it’s not a misconception - it's all true.
Not so much the Private Members’ Clubs – except for the higher echelons when entertaining authors - and not so much vodka at lunchtime, unless, like me, you go home and absent-mindedly take your multivitamin with a glass you find by the sink and then discover it doesn’t contain water. (I live with my kids. My kids have parties that end when I’m getting up. Accidents happen.)
However, certainly hangovers after work nights out are worn next morning as bonding badges of honour (who can forget the great Louisa Karaoke Evening?) And when we decide to push the party boat out after a book launch or a leaving do, what often begins as a sedate bottle of white in the Boardroom to celebrate say - the launch of Graham Rawle’s magnificently dark and wonderful The Wizard of Oz - becomes a mass office exodus to The Perseverence in Lamb’s Conduit Street, from which I teeter unsteadily at around 8.30 having dined on two bags of Cheese and Onion Crisps, purchased for me by none other than the esteemed author himself. Ah yes, rubbing shoulders with the literati - it's a classy life.
I then make my way home, with a slight detour about which we will not talk about here, and arrive at the house at about 2am when I go directly upstairs, without passing go, and without either collecting a glass of water or saying hello to the assembled rabble offspring who have been up since around three pm raiding the fridge and are now busy, variously assembling teams to win the Championship League in FIFA 2009, or slaughtering orks or whatever in Warcraft, or watching My Super Sweet 16 Marathons while I’ve been at that novelty activity called:
Work.
Networking.
Etc.
I fall straight into bed and wait for the room to stop spinning.
It doesn’t.
However my head begins to beat like the bass in a souped up Ford Capri idling at the traffic lights on Ladbroke Grove.
I sit up, brace myself for the bed’s massive lilt to the side, then wince as I turn on the lights, scrabble for my glasses and survey the bowl at the side of my bed which is like the display in a hypochondriac's sweet shop.
Darling, it's The Valley of The Dolls.
Networking.
Etc.
I fall straight into bed and wait for the room to stop spinning.
It doesn’t.
However my head begins to beat like the bass in a souped up Ford Capri idling at the traffic lights on Ladbroke Grove.
I sit up, brace myself for the bed’s massive lilt to the side, then wince as I turn on the lights, scrabble for my glasses and survey the bowl at the side of my bed which is like the display in a hypochondriac's sweet shop.
Darling, it's The Valley of The Dolls.
The bowl contains all sorts of pills for all sorts of ailments from which I, or people known to me, may once have suffered back in 1982 but which I keep, just in case of a medical crisis. I know there are beta-blockers (too much coffee one day last summer), a bottle of emergency Valium (my ex-husband’s back problems 18 months ago, very handy for jet lag), some Sleepy Time Herbal Remedy the size of horse pills (divorce - I lost him, but at least I got the Valium as well as the insomnia) , and some indigestion pills (The Ivy's bad martinis). I sift though them. I ‘m sure there is a foil packet of painkillers. But what's what? Everything has brand names. I remember giving my daughter Zantac for a week thinking it was Zirtac for her hay fever and then wondering why it wasn't helping and she was still sneezing (though had a remarkably settled stomach), so I lifted up one bubble pack after another, picking through them - I found Colofac, Propanalol and Cuprafen - but what are they all for?
This is how I come to be sitting on my laptop at 2.15 in the morning typing Colofac – into a search engine. Apparently it's an antispasmodic and I didn't even know anyone suffered from spasms. Then Cuprafen - the foil that's been peeled back in several places and my still drunk eyesight means it takes me ages to get the spelling right - but bingo - I type it in and Lo - dulcet angels burst into songs of praise and relief - pain relief. It's an analgesic.
I take one with Colgate flavoured water from the toothpaste mug (I should have stopped for that glass of water) and try to sleep. A quarter of an hour later I take another. Luckily, the liquid in the glass is indeed only water and I manage not to brush my teeth with Triflora Arthritis gel.
What did we do before Google I wonder.
This is how I come to be sitting on my laptop at 2.15 in the morning typing Colofac – into a search engine. Apparently it's an antispasmodic and I didn't even know anyone suffered from spasms. Then Cuprafen - the foil that's been peeled back in several places and my still drunk eyesight means it takes me ages to get the spelling right - but bingo - I type it in and Lo - dulcet angels burst into songs of praise and relief - pain relief. It's an analgesic.
I take one with Colgate flavoured water from the toothpaste mug (I should have stopped for that glass of water) and try to sleep. A quarter of an hour later I take another. Luckily, the liquid in the glass is indeed only water and I manage not to brush my teeth with Triflora Arthritis gel.
What did we do before Google I wonder.
