When Mr T said he was off to William Hill at lunch time and would need to cancel my annual review meeting, I did think it was a bit shabby of him to be sloping off to the bookies while I was wringing my hands in anxiety about keeping my job for another year. And then I remembered from the congratulatory emails whizzing around the office that he was going to The William Hill prize for best Sports Book of the Year for which John Carlin, author of Playing the Enemy had been most deservedly nominated. Grudgingly, I moved myself into a later slot in his diary, and shall live to fret another day. It is, however, hard to see how the office could manage without me so perhaps I shall survive the cull. Who else would arrange for the annual office clean up? Who keeps us going in anti-bacterial hand soap? What other women is brave enough to enter the dark cavern of the Ubereditor's office and approach his desk without protective clothing?
Why, just this morning the MD of our esteemed company looked up as I approached and his eyes widened in pleasure. 'Amazing,' he crowed. And it's true, I was having a really good hair day, but still, I don't usually get quite such a joyous reception. Our resident Fashionista was equally surprised until he qualified his delight: 'The light bulbs have arrived!' he said, gesturing towards my hands in which I held - yes, you've guessed it, a long Osram Dulux L light fitment.
God, you know you're getting old when men are only electrified by the fact that you've bought a box of ruddy light bulbs.
'He'll be hoping you're going to get on a ladder and screw it in for him,' said Fashionista. This is what it comes down to. Sigh. I met my husband by climbing up and down a stepladder in a library until he asked me to dinner. But then look how that worked out...
Sadly, we didn't win the William Hill Prize, that honour went to former England batsman Marcus Trescothick for his autobiography Coming Back to Me in which he talks about his struggle with depression. Poor thing. I thought cricket was only depressing when you had to watch it.
We have a second and third bite at the cherry this evening. We are sharing a table with Cannongate at the Colman Getty PEN Quiz at the Cafe Royal which promises the winners a fistful of William Hill Betting Vouchers (there's just no getting away from these people - who knew bookies were so literary?) Mr T sent round an email asking if any of us wanted to take a place at the table and a few of our number felt they were confident enough in their general knowledge - or very, very foolish - and volunteered. I was not one of them. I used to be a regular at a quiz held in the bowels of the Atlantic Bar (and there's another coincidence) made up of teams of hacks from various newspapers and hosted by Jeremy Beadle, but that was a no brainer. For a start the team headed up by Jane Goldman, which usually included both David Baddiel and Frank Skinner, always won (though I have no idea what newspaper they were pretending to be from) and then, because we are talking about journalists here, second only to publishers in their fondness for alcohol, everyone was fairly drunk by the second round and didn't really give a damn about accuracy - much like the publications they worked for. I did, however, develop an excellent I'm-thinking-really-hard-and- it's-on-the-tip-of-my-tongue intent expression which exploded into Eureka - got it! relief when another person chipped in with the right answer. It worked beautifully with a lot of plastered hacks but I don't see it getting past the gimlet-eyed Mr T and his band of merry smartalecs.
At the same time as the quiz, our third chance to win something comes at the reception for The John Llewellyn Rhys Prize which is being held at Century on Shaftsbury Avenue where Aravind is one of the six finalists. With Mr T and the other Chiefs sweating it out in the contest for Brainy Publisher of the Year, this clears the way for the Indians to drink a glass of cava, and Lo, a miracle has occurred: there is a spare invitation.
'Would you like to come? Marion,' asks the holder of the golden ticket. 'Not being rude or anything, but you wouldn't get a chance to go if everyone else wasn't at the PEN Quiz.'
I know, I know, but damn it, I have to cook dinner. And by the time I get home and go back again I will have lost two hours of work, and I have a pile of things waiting to be attended to and an article to write for the Sunday Times Style Section by Wednesday... I just can't see how I could possibly...
'Absolutely, what time, where?' I said, though while everyone else is turning up in feathers, heels and lipstick (except the Ubereditor who doesn't usually bother with the lipstick), I'm going to have to settle for jeans and boots because I don't have time to go home and change.
It'll be Cinderella before the fairy godmother make-over - but hey - I can always just stick a lightbulb in each hand.
