It's a big day for Atlantic. Last night at the Nibbies we walked off with two awards, the Uber Editor got Editor and Imprint of the year and Pedantic got Independent Publisher of the Year. Yet, surprisingly both Uber and Mr T were already bouncing around the office like a pair of hungover, but remarkably cheery Tiggers when I arrived; and then as the morning progressed, the slow trickle of other casualties arrived with big heads and even bigger sunglasses.
We also seem to have won the award for best supporting act. To quote from The Bookseller: In the year of The White Tiger it is difficult to quibble with Atlantic winning the indie of the year and Ravi Mirchandani taking home the imprint and editor gong. Atlantic certainly brought the shoutiest support. When Toby Mundy and Mirchandani were at the podium, the cheering was not unlike the Kop saluting Steven Gerrard.
'So was everyone cheering?' I asked one of my colleagues.
'Erm, sort of. But it was mostly just us. I think we were the only ones standing up for most of the time.'
'And stomping and whistling,' added another.
Of course we're all delighted and thrilled but I admit, I struggled with my Cinderella Complex at having had to settle for admiring everyone else's ball gowns, after sorting out their ball arrangements. Not that I should have been included since ordering padded envelopes, measuring desks and phone answering are not, as yet, a category in the British Book Awards. But still, this must be what the other pumpkins felt like when the biggest one in the patch was turned into a carriage. Though who the heck wants to be a big pumpkin, anyway?
One of the Chiefs decided that she would make sure we all shared in the celebrations and nipped out for half a dozen bottles of Tattinger. So just before lunch we all gathered round the Franking Machine (oh yes, it's glamorous in publishing) and raised a glass to ourselves.
Our esteemed Scottish Chief (who had, apparently, a bottle of whisky in his sporran last night (that's a big sporran you have there if you can fit in a bottle of grog, son, but you do know size doesn't matter) looked a little worse for wear, as you would expect from reports that they only got to the Scotch after the tequila. Once furnished with some fizzy hair of the dog, he came over, winked at me and chinked my glass. He offered me the Scottish Solidarity smile, then leaned forward confidentially, looked at me smoulderingly and in the way of one about to admit a secret that was for my ears only, said: 'By the way...'
I simpered expectantly.
'...my fan's broken. I'll need to get you to order another one.'
My Scottish Solidarity smile slipped.
'No.' I said. (Actually, this is what I'm willing to admit to having said - I may, indeed, have been a little more succinct - not a good idea when addressing a senior employee).
He looked shocked.
'I'm on strike. You all swan off to your fancy awards ceremony, spend the night in Cambridge wining and dining; and then you come back full of tales of canapes and tequila, while we're here answering the phone and taking your messages (in fact, because I was being ritually bled by a nurse who didn't seem to know which end of the syringe was sharp, I didn't get in myself until 10.15, and I didn't take any messages for anyone, but we'll leave that aside for the moment, it spoils my stance...) and now, NOW just when I'm standing here having a glass of champagne myself - you want me to order you a fan?.' No wonder he had a smouldering look in his bleary eye - he was just hot.
'Maybe you'd like me to go and get a palm frond and come up and ruddy fan you myself...'
He threw his head back and chuckled, slapped me on the shoulder, and topped up my glass.
We drank in silence for a few seconds.
'But seriously though Marion, I will need a new fan. And we're also going to need some new shelves for the office.'
It's always been my ambition that when standing with a champagne glass in my hand, the one thing a man would associate me with would be office equipment.
'Aye, okay then,' I said, weakly, 'I'll do it tomorrow.'
Cheers.
Now fan off.
