Well, I am here at the CWA conference and it is quite a
roller-coaster ride. In fact, so short of time am I that I barely
have time to fulfil my promise and let the world know what goes on
here. But a promise is a promise, and here, in note form only, I'm
afraid, is my journal of the last 24 hours.
Friday 1 April 2, 2011
3pm. I am on train heading north. Not the Hogwarts Express,
sadly. I'm clutching my copy of Red Herrings, the CWA journal,
hoping to be spotted by fellow delegates. A Bloody Mary or two in
the buffet car would be nice. Sadly, not a trilby, smoking jacket
or velvet cloak in sight. Conclude they must all be masters of
disguise.
3.20pm. I try reading The Bookseller. If they think I'm someone
important like an editor, maybe they'll come and talk to me.
3.45pm. In desperation now, pull out a copy of Blood Harvest. I
give it up when the woman opposite sneers and starts talking loudly
about airport trash.
4.15pm. The man across the aisle has used the F word fifteen
times in the last twenty minutes. Now, he could
be a crime writer.
4.30pm. Woman opposite looks a bit familiar. Begin to suspect
she is the new Director of the CWA.
***
6.27pm. I have arrived. No one told me this year's theme is Law
Enforcement. Or that I had to come in uniform.
6.30pm. Have just been asked for my name, rank and serial number
by two burly coppers. This is more fun than I expected.
6.43pm. Tall young policeman chatting to me has just produced
handcuffs. Bit early in the evening, isn't it?
6.44pm. I appear to be in the wrong hotel.
***
6.50pm. Was invited to stay at the Northern Constabulary's
Annual Senior Officer's dinner dance and was very tempted but have
decided to venture out into the night again. Ah, an isolated park,
massive cedar trees, an imposing, if crumbling old manor house. The
door creaks. The receptionist looks a bit like the daughter from
the Addams Family. Around me are bottle-top spectacles, ink-stained
fingers, broken capillaries. I think this is it.
***
9.30pm. Dinner is over and we all head to the bar. I wander
round, looking for people I recognise, stopping to Twitter and
update my Facebook page every couple of minutes. People are
starting to suspect I'm a journalist and are sidling away.
9.42pm. There! A familiar face. Must approach casually and
engage in intelligent conversation. Must not collapse in a
gibbering heap like I did when I met Joanne Harris.
9.43pm. It's my old English teacher. What the blazes is she
doing here?
10.15pm. Apparently, my spelling has made some progress over the
last twenty years but my sentence construction has barely improved
at all since lower sixth and I still have a very annoying tendency
to let my imagination run away with me. I've been very lucky that
the publishing industry appears to have had a collective nervous
breakdown over the last five years but do I have another skill,
like cooking school dinners that I can fall back on? She gives
Blood Harvest a solid B -, and asks whatever happened to that
talented Susan Rushton.
10.20pm. Am going outside for a fag. WELL, I BLOODY WELL DO
NOW!
10.27pm. Out on patio, a tall, dark-haired, gorgeous woman in a
blue dress is clutching a copy of Tom Cain's The Accident
Man. I am a Tom Cain fan too. I make my way over for a
chat.
10.30pm. Turns out tall dark-haired woman in blue IS Tom Cain. I
am learning such a lot this weekend. Like where you can buy the
most adorable shoes for larger feet.
10.36pm. Alexander McCall Smith has brought a pet snake called
Precious. I am the only one brave enough to stroke it. Turns out he
is Mark O'Shea's great uncle.
10.38pm. Ooops, sorry - tall, gorgeous woman in a blue dress is
Chelsea Cain. Blimey, those two could be sisters - I mean
twins.
10.42pm. Alexander has invited me to his room to see his other
snakes. This may take some time.
10.43pm. This is SJ Bolton, your roving reporter at the CWA
annual conference 2011, bringing you the news as it happens, but
signing out now because I'm tired.
***
NB: My lawyer has just phoned, in a right old tizz, insisting
that I point out that I may, occasionally above, have used a tiny,
teeny bit of journalistic licence.