Flying

Yesterday was mind blowing. It had taken around three years to get there, and for me it climaxed perfectly with the conversation between Olivia and Ali Smith at the British Library, attended by family, friends, publishers and fans, hundreds of them. It's been recorded, so hopefully I can listen again on YouTube or wherever, and enjoy it calmly. There's something about these big events that numb my brain as well as stimulate it almost to excess, so hearing it again will be wonderful. My friend Judith, having bought a copy of the book, turned to get Olivia to sign it for her, oblivious to the fact that she had crashed a huge queue waiting for Olivia's moniker. Her face when she saw them looming behind her was a picture. Anyway, the girl is flying now, rave reviews on both sides of the Atlantic, and she ain't going to land anytime soon. Her future is secure. Hallelujah!

I wasn't confined to bed with a bug as I dreaded, and unable to get to London. It has been worth stuffing my nose with endless squirts of First Defence to the point of nasal septum deterioration just to survive the germ-ridden situations I've been exposed to. I can't believe that an over-the-counter - OTC in marketing terms - product, not expensive, that promises the near-miracle of blocking infection really works. But it seems that it does. I will never be separated from it again.

I got in a bit of a muddle with the train journey, and travelled home first class using the wrong ticket. Luckily I wasn't challenged, but I had genuinely made a mistake, booking the premium tickets for a journey I will not now be making. Seemed fair to me, and what a difference it makes sitting in the comfortable, peaceful section of the train when you're ready to collapse at the end of a thrilling day. My car was enveloped in ice when I climbed into it, and the sky was black and clear, but I barely clocked the incredible stars when all I had in mind was hot chocolate and bed. Hot chocolate and bed. It's a beguiling mantra when you're on your last legs.