I was somewhat disconcerted this afternoon to discover that my much-liked friend, and first choice of companion for outbursts of intoxicated Cambridge whittering, is not called what I thought he was.
I had emailed him my latest assignment for his consideration, and when his reply came it was from his work email, whereupon I discovered that his first name is in fact Professor, and his second name is Sir.
I do wish I didn’t talk such complete unadulterated twaddle once I have started drinking. No wonder he is such good company, because he is a sensible grown-up, and so clever that other people have noticed. I like to think I am clever, but nobody ever notices by themselves so I have to tell them.
I am going to have to stop telling my friend how clever I am now. It is not as if he is one of the other taxi drivers. These things are all relative.
I must also inform you that I have had my first dragon-rejection email.
I was not terribly downcast by this, because I know there are very likely to be dozens of them, but especially I was not downcast because it was not from a company which I admired so much I hardly dared type in their email address. A couple of the agents I have favoured with my outpourings come into this category, and I shall be grief-stricken, although not exactly surprised, when their rejection emails come in.
This agent came from an agency that is half British and half American, so I do not really care very much. I do not expect Americans to like things that I do. They are sun-kissed and have straight white teeth, and wear things called bobby socks. I am not quite sure what a bobby sock is, which goes to show that really they are speaking a foreign language and cannot be expected to appreciate the underground adventures of boys and dragons.
I considered sending it to another agent, just so I can still feel as though I have got six shots in the air, but in the end decided not to. It is probably more sensible to wait and see if any of the others come back with an explanation of why they do not want to read my story. If that happens then I can make some changes before I send it to anybody else. Also I had got to bath the dogs, and by the time I had finished I had forgotten anyway.
The American agent did not tell me anything useful. She said that my story did not fit her, which I imagine is American for No Buzz Off.
Perhaps she had got it confused with some bobby socks.
In other news, I am writing this in a hasty rush before we buzz off in the camper van, which is our adventure for tonight. We are going to collect Oliver, and I am looking forward to it very much.
I am hoping that my foot will be sufficiently recovered to walk on the beach. It was horribly painful this morning, but is much better now, which I concede might be because of all the drugs. Still I can take drugs in Scotland, so it might be all right, and I have packed some especially for that eventuality. I have realised that it is very easy to be brave and uncomplaining and noble when you are not in very much pain. This morning when it was excruciatingly sore I whinged like mad, so probably I am not as heroic as I had begun to believe.
I have packed everything. I have hoovered and mopped and emptied all of the bins. I have bought crumpets and orange juice in readiness for Oliver’s presence, and in a couple of hours we will be gone, on yet another Ancient Camper Van adventure into the far north.
Keep your fingers crossed for us, as always…
