That Blogmeet

I was a bit starstruck about the whole blogmeet thing (which was in honour of Andre's 40th birthday), because some of my favourite bloggers were going to be there, and I was bowled over at having been invited in the first place. And then there was the timing. It became The Event which separated seven months of full-time novelwriterdom from my return to software-engineeriness yesterday.

I needed forcibly removing from Manchester, otherwise I'd have ended up writing obsessively until 3am Monday. So I stayed up writing half the night on Friday, instead. And thus I found myself on a train on Saturday morning, having only had four hours' sleep.

I snaffled myself a table seat, and removed the following from my bag:

A book ("Secrets of the Mind" by Derren Brown (I've just written a novel about a mindreader))
Some strong black thread
Some needles
A special blow-up neck cushion
A penknife

My first job was to mend the broken pockets on my yeti coat, which I love, but which never looks quite as good as it ought cos of the broken pockets. And I did want to make a good impression. So I mended the broken pockets (which were pockets, and broken - just in case you hadn't gathered that yet).

My next job was to squeeze my way along a crowded train to the toilet, take my trousers off and swap them for a spare pair, return to my seat and fix a broken hem. Except that while I was in the loo, I noticed a gaping hole in the crotch of Spare Trousers.

So I returned to my seat, mended the spare trousers, went back to the bog, got changed, returned to my seat again... wondering whether anyone had noticed that my previously black-clad legs were now sporting a fetching pair of rainbow-coloured leggings. With no hole in the crotch.

Those not in the habit of hemming trousers may not be aware of the surprising quantity of thread required. But I'm experienced in such matters, and so I know. Unfortunately what I don't know, or hadn't considered, is how wide your arm has to go when pulling said thread taut after each stitch. Which, if you're on a train, involves poking your neighbour-across-the-aisle with a needle every few seconds, not to mention offering impromptu acupuncture to every passing stranger.

I adjusted my technique after my neighbour communicated the error to me - with his terrified body language.

The next job after Mending was Sleeping. So I blew up my special round-the-neck travel cushion, fidgeted, flumped, sighed, twitched, rearranged myself, Utterly Failed To Sleep, squeezed all the air back out again and got out my sardine sandwiches, flask of tea, leftover christening cake, home-made chocolate cake, three apples and an orange, instead.

I do like to be prepared.

I thought of Anna, and in her honour ate the sardine sandwiches very-very-quickly and wrapped them all carefully in clingfilm in between mouthfuls. I forgot about the apples though. I ate three apples on a crowded train. Sorry Anna.

So anyway, Eccentric Lady Eats Apples And Does Mending on Train, blah blah blah.

Then I was at Covent Garden tube and there was the lovely Monkey of the Non-Working Variety waiting for me, just like we planned, except - horrors! - I was out on the street before I had a chance to extract my specially-prepared Boob Pencil sign from my bag.

So after we bought biscuits and exclaimed excitedly about how nice it was to meet each other, I insisted that we do The Sign Thing right there and then in the middle of the street, because I had been so looking forward to it and I felt Cheated. Except that she didn't have a sign. She lied! So there you go. The NWM lady is a cheeky monkey who tells lies in her comments box and you should never trust her ever again.

But by this time I was high on novel completion and sleeplessness, and insisted on displaying it anyway:



Now look. I'm not really that ugly. Yes, I do have a lot of grey hair and my chin is big and I'm not actually very young and all that, but I still didn't look anywhere near that bad really and... ah, fergeddit. Tis a funny pic all the same.

Oh yes, and then we arrived and there were lots of lovely people there and I nattered non-stop and had to change my top because of a Smelly Stain and JonnyB was scared of me and I met a New Lovely Lady called Rachel from FrizzyLogic, and Anna was Even Lovelier Than I Expected and she gave me a business card with a monkey with two tails, and I put my foot in it by getting too tall thin blokes mixed up with each other, and Leonie had a beautiful green dress (and was, generally, beautiful) and I burbled and wibbled to A Free Man in Preston and Girl on a Train and Girl With a One Track Mind and Petite Anglaise and Robin Who Speaks as a Parent and Troubled Mike Diva and Pete.Nu and Karen Uborka and their Bernard (gorgeous!) and PixelDiva (lovely hair) and The Cheerful One and Britblog Mark and Status:Anxiety (not apparently anxious at all) and, of course, Birthday Boy Himself (incredibly nice, and rather dashing) and ate chilli chocolate and drank tequila and Had A Nice Time.

But you didn't come here to read about that. You want to know about train journeys and cake, right? Yes. Thought so.

The one person I haven't mentioned yet is my saviour for the weekend, Hg from Hydragenic. He gave me - a total stranger with an email habit - a bed for the night, and - most importantly of all - he and Rachel took me off to a cafe for The Best Chocolate Cake In The World Ever. It was on the South Bank, which I was blown away by, being a starstruck Northerner and it being all lit up and beautiful at night and all that. And we got served by a stupendously cute waitress with a French accent, who I flirted with shamelessly.

And then it was bedtime and I only slept for 3.5 hours before waking up again, and finally the pseudoephedrine and the caffeine and the chocolate and the tequila and four weeks of gradually cumulating mania and stress all kicked in at once and I had an anxiety attack in the middle of the night in Hg's house. But even that was all right, because he was the kind of Hospitable Host that made me feel it was perfectly all right to have a bath, eat muesli, snuggle up on the sofa, borrow a bath robe and generally make myself at home in a strange house in the middle of the night. And their spare bed is very-very comfy. And he's a jolly nice chap.

So, thank you Hg. It was very much appreciated.

And now I'm back at work - of which more later - and convinced that I made an utter arse of myself on Saturday, and doing that Stupid - Infuriating - For Heaven's Sake You Stupid Cow - thing of focusing on tiny little niggles and negatives and convincing myself that all the best fun was had by people other than me in places other than mine instead of remembering what a lovely time I had. Which I did. So there.