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The Gollancz party
Sep. 28th, 2007 09:37 amI went along to this yesterday to support a friend who has signed a new 3 book deal with Gollancz and I will let her introduce herself in case I get her wrong writing name! Over to you, J.
Anyway, I was very organised and booked my train in advance, and left lots of time for traffic, only to find that there was no parking whatsoever at Parkway. Drove round and round in an increasing snit and the parking gods finally relented: a spot appeared right in front of the station. Hurled car into it. Hurled self onto train just as the doors were closing, thus avoiding re-negotiation of ticket and fare. And only then thought: was that the short term, or the long term parking? Because the former carries a penalty fine if you are there for more than an hour.
On the train, got a phone call from a staff member to say that a very upset woman had been in the shop to leave a message for Trevor, of an unspecified bad-news nature. From the tone of it, it was clear that someone had died, and when I phoned the number, I learned that it was a supplier of ours, a guy who worked in the local market. We weren't close friends, but we went for a drink on several occasions and T knew M for some years. M was a jolly man and I liked him. It was a heart attack and not unexpected, but M was in his fifties and - well, and and and. There is a possibility we will be conducting the funeral.
Somewhat sombre, I reached London mid-afternoon and bummed around Covent Garden and Soho for a couple of hours, buying books, eating sushi etc, before hitting the party, which was in a semi-regular haunt of the Gollancz crew: the October Gallery, in Bloomsbury. I saw a bunch of people (messrs Priest, Baxter, McAuley, Cornell, Kincaid, Roberts, Holdstock, and Ms Cadigan. I've probably left people out).
Halfway through the evening I stepped behind a Famous Author, who will be nameless as they are a mate and I don't want to embarrass them. FA's elbow connected with the base of my wineglass, thus sending an arc of red wine down what passes for my cleavage, with such precision and speed that it missed my outer clothes.
There was a lot of catching up - due to buying the new shop, I haven't seen anyone since the Clarke's - and much slagging-off of Jeanette I-don't-approve-of-that-manky-SF-but-oops!-I've-written-a-novel-in-which-I've-ripped-off-all-your-tropes Winterson.
Returned at a reasonable hour, stinking of drink (somewhat unfair as, due to the driving thing, I had been very moderate, but red wine down the front spreads) and finished THE HISTORIAN on the train, but a points failure at Bristol sent all of us Parkway-parked into Temple Meads, resulting in a free taxi ride courtesy of the railway. Got home about midnight to find that T has bought a rather nice electric guitar. I don't seem to have a parking ticket. Much joy.
Anyway, I was very organised and booked my train in advance, and left lots of time for traffic, only to find that there was no parking whatsoever at Parkway. Drove round and round in an increasing snit and the parking gods finally relented: a spot appeared right in front of the station. Hurled car into it. Hurled self onto train just as the doors were closing, thus avoiding re-negotiation of ticket and fare. And only then thought: was that the short term, or the long term parking? Because the former carries a penalty fine if you are there for more than an hour.
On the train, got a phone call from a staff member to say that a very upset woman had been in the shop to leave a message for Trevor, of an unspecified bad-news nature. From the tone of it, it was clear that someone had died, and when I phoned the number, I learned that it was a supplier of ours, a guy who worked in the local market. We weren't close friends, but we went for a drink on several occasions and T knew M for some years. M was a jolly man and I liked him. It was a heart attack and not unexpected, but M was in his fifties and - well, and and and. There is a possibility we will be conducting the funeral.
Somewhat sombre, I reached London mid-afternoon and bummed around Covent Garden and Soho for a couple of hours, buying books, eating sushi etc, before hitting the party, which was in a semi-regular haunt of the Gollancz crew: the October Gallery, in Bloomsbury. I saw a bunch of people (messrs Priest, Baxter, McAuley, Cornell, Kincaid, Roberts, Holdstock, and Ms Cadigan. I've probably left people out).
Halfway through the evening I stepped behind a Famous Author, who will be nameless as they are a mate and I don't want to embarrass them. FA's elbow connected with the base of my wineglass, thus sending an arc of red wine down what passes for my cleavage, with such precision and speed that it missed my outer clothes.
There was a lot of catching up - due to buying the new shop, I haven't seen anyone since the Clarke's - and much slagging-off of Jeanette I-don't-approve-of-that-manky-SF-but-oops!-I've-written-a-novel-in-which-I've-ripped-off-all-your-tropes Winterson.
Returned at a reasonable hour, stinking of drink (somewhat unfair as, due to the driving thing, I had been very moderate, but red wine down the front spreads) and finished THE HISTORIAN on the train, but a points failure at Bristol sent all of us Parkway-parked into Temple Meads, resulting in a free taxi ride courtesy of the railway. Got home about midnight to find that T has bought a rather nice electric guitar. I don't seem to have a parking ticket. Much joy.
