A friend who lives nearby rolled and I became so excited I was chattering on as though I had been wound up and had to recite 10,000 words before the next crank, quickly filling her in on the events of the two years since we last met. Babies (hers) were displayed on iPhones, husbands (mine) and their absence (yup, me again) were discussed, and my nerves were further jangled by the addition of. caffeine in a frighteningly smart cafe that would rival Ottolenghi.
Thankfully a few other people did arrive - a very nice group of variously aged middle-class Glesgie women, a clutch of librarians (despite being one, I don't know what the collective noun is for the species - a carrel maybe, or a shelf?) who filled the chairs nicely and one man - who I eyed cautiously as, of the few men who have read the book and not married me (very small sample) most of them haven't liked it.
Then I had to read aloud.
I haven't read aloud since my kids were small and they weren't a very tough audience. Mostly they were held captive under severely tucked in sheets and duvets (it's the Scottish way - you are pinned to submission under blankets, escape unwise due to the absence of central heating) and were bored to somnolence within ten minutes - or pretended to be, just to get rid of me - even when I did the voices. Especially when I did the voices, come to think of it. I know the Scottish accent is supposed to be reassuring and ideal for call centres but it doesn't go down that well when you're doing bed-time stories and trying to sound Swiss for Heidi. Two of my favourite books as a child were the very old fashioned Children of the New Forest and The Little White Horse (the latter having been made, or murdered, into a film called The Secret of Moonacre last year). Oh God, the mangled vowels as I tried to sound English while my kids, who had books on tape dripped into their ears like warm almond oil from an early age narrated by actors with fully dramatised sound effects, and further handicapped by old fashioned language that they didn't understand:
'He was one of those who had joined the king's army with the other verderers and keepers.'
'Ma, what's a vederur?'
'Why is he in an army?'
'What's he keeping?'
Sigh. The expression on their faces was akin to those being tortured by Vogons.
Do you want to practice on me?' asked my film director friend who trains actors. 'Three words a second and don't speak for any longer than five minutes would be my advice.'
I passed on the free voice coaching, did the maths and chose a Scottish chapter, to make the diction easier. At work I locked myself in the loo and muttered as I timed myself while people stood outside the door thinking that a homeless person had holed up inside with half a bottle of meths. Now there's an idea...
At least with a home crowd they do speak the same language so an interpreter was not necessary, but I was still strangled with fear. After about two years I finally came to the end of the passage, eyeing the audience warily, hoping that none of them hated the book. I was particularly worried about the man.
But we Scots do have manners and they gave me a polite round of applause and we all drank tea and ate Garibaldis.
It was difficult to know who was the more relieved.
