We were three times losers in the PEN quiz, but came a very commendable 18th, so Pedantic Heads were held high and company pride maintained.
I went to a quiz somewhat lower down the scale. To the BBC to see a taping of Never Mind the Buzzcocks, to watch my friend Phill hum intros, none of which I could guess. I'm so unplugged I didn't even know who the other guests were except for one poor simple guy from a boy band, taunted so mercilessly by Simon Amstell, that I wanted to get up out if the audience and smack him. It was so cringingly painful, like the slow boy at school being picked on by the class clever dick. Even the person sitting next to me had his head in his hands, unable to watch.
And why do people think that standing in a line up being ridiculed is a great way to rejuvenate a fading career? The real show takes about three hours to film and the one hit wonders of yesteryear are standing out there under the lights for as long as twenty minutes trying to look impassive while the panelists make derisory remarks about them, just to take a three second bow. If that's funny then I've lost my sense of humour. It's like Bedlam with video clips.
I didn't really want to go to the Green Room afterwards, though the likes of Matthew Wright, apparently the host of a daytime chat show watched by the unemployed, and comedienne Katy Brand, are, as I'm sure you agree, hard to resist.
And yet, somehow I managed.
Phill looked tired. I was exhausted. We passed Paxo in the hall on the way out who also looked knackered. The two greeted each other with the same cordial familiarity I show the man from Viking Office Supplies - believe me, the two of us are great pals. But Jeremy didn't seem to recognise me which is surprising since we are both with the same literary agent. I can only imagine he's kicking himself now, thinking, damn it, was that Marion?
The next day I had a library event in North London at which one of the two other Waddling Duck authors also attending turned out to be the sweet and modest World War II pilot who was nominated for the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize. I sent him an email:
'I see we're meeting again tomorrow - I promise you I am a lot nicer when not nervous and not drunk.'
'This is good news.' he replied.
I wasn't so sure, especially as the event promised both alcohol and nerves in equal measure, but when I arrived, he was the only person I knew and I clung to his superior literary reputation like an inconsequential limpet, trying desperately to be nice, as women came up and asked him to autograph his hardback. This was a lot cleaner than it sounds. We're talking librarians remember.
I met a lovely woman called Jodi from my local library who wondered if I would be interested in doing an event. Of course I would be, though my real local library is full of unemployed males, many of whom smell of Special Brew and I can't see them being overly interested in a black Notting Hill widow, except for spare change. In fact the library in question does feature in my novel. Oh yes, location, location, location. However, Jodi toils at the turnstile of a library at the posher end of the borough so I live in hope that some sleek book club will consent to read my book. And the fact that I could have driven to Chelsea with my resident's parking permit and met her there rather than trekking to North Bloody London, from my sickbed, high on Lemsip and low on sparkling conversation, is neither here nor there. Well in fact, it's there, at the far end of the Piccadilly line where nobody else but she wanted to meet me.
It was the cocktail party from hell's idea of hell.
'Are you librarians?' I asked a pair of pregnant ladies standing ominously close to a some swinging doors which hit me everytime someone left (there was practically a stampede for the exit), surely winning the prize for most original line at a library convention.
One laughed. 'They don't call us that any more, I'm a branch manager.' she said, exchanging a superior look with her friend. Yep, like that makes you any more interesting, dearie. But then they too swung out the doors and left me.
'I used to be a librarian,' I told another, trying in vain to strike up some camaraderie. The fact that I was 22 in a predominatly male higher educational establishment at the time and treated the place like Club 18-30 with books, wasn't mentioned. Oh well then, it was, I sort of blurted it out - nerves and drink and cold relief remedies... Amy Winehouse's adverse reaction to medication springs to mind. You really shouldn't mix antihistamine with booze.
The woman looked at me over her glasses. She was not amused.
I don't think any of them will be recommending my book to their readers.
I eventually introduced myself to another gushy author who just looked like a librarian, who was twittering on about what she was cooking for her children's supper (Pan MacMillan). 'I should run off home if you've had enough,' her publicist told me. 'Go on, nobody will miss you.'
God these people will go to any lengths to get rid of the competition...
much like my ex-husband who, when I arrived home, sick, coughing, feverish, tired and emotional,
was just on his way out, the last of his clothes packed into bags and boxes, piled up in the hallway.
I went upstairs, closed the doors of his empty wardrobe and got into bed.
Turns out there's some pain that Nurofen doesn't banish.
