festive

 

 "OK, that's, like, a bit weird," said Katie. Richard was describing our Moggy and its habit of bimbling around Bristol; and that is precisely what it was doing at that very moment, bouncing us over Cotham Brow, down to Whiteladies Road and the studio where Richard was being interviewed live on BBC Bristol. He was up in town for the Bristol Festival of Literature, and we got a passing mention as Richard talked about those of his books with a local flavour to them...

Minutes later he was on board and we were heading home. 

"You gave good radio," I said.

"She was a good presenter," he said. "The taxi from the station got me there with two minutes to spare. You have to go through this huge news room full of people, then she's in a tiny little room at the other end..."

We had an early dinner. Oven chips, Pukka pies and mushy peas. Just the thing to keep you going through a busy evening. Twenty minutes later we were on the bus down to Broadmead, industriously folding up leaflets for the National Academy of Writing, hot off the printer, ready for the reading. Richard showed me how to do it, and I did it a different way because I thought my way was better. All that time making origami frogs in maths lessons at school wasn't wasted, let me tell you.  We were a bit cramped, though. "These seats are bloody small," I observed. I've not been on a bus for years. Maybe buses are now being designed with an eye to the future, when everyone is going to be a midget.

 At Foyle's, Richard talked about Lazarus Is Dead with Jari Moate. Then we dashed across town to Easton, where Richard and Pete Salmon held a NAW masterclass.

...and then it was time to go to the Apple, a cider pub that is also a boat. James Russell was already installed on a bench, having been at Stanfords Bookshop earlier, doing an event for his Naked Guide to Cider.

A late night, then.