I was in Starbucks with the FYO and made the mistake of saying he could have what he liked as a cake, even lifting him up so he could see. What I hadn’t noticed were things-on-sticks that resemble lollies but are actually lumps of marshmallow dipped in chocolate. I kept my word. After eating his sandwiches he set to work on the lolly thing, eating down one side the way beavers gnaw logs. Eventually I could see the whole stick. ‘Why not eat it around the other side?’ I said. ‘That way the rest of it won’t fall off.’ He nods, and off he goes, round to the other side of the table.
Serves me right for not being specific.
Attempted, unsucessfully, to write in Starbucks this morning. Not because the muse had left me, but because of the earbashing piped music, jazz on a solo tenor sax, strangled by tinny speakers that pitched it around castrato – as if it wasn’t bad enough already. Struggled on, as one does, wanting to be somewhere else but not wanting to bolt my latte and mini cheese and ham muchies (that I rather like). Developed a gradually worstening brain pain. Bye bye Starbucks, hello Nero and Mr Costa.
Interesting stuff now appearing in blogs and on Twitter about electronic publishing. I get the impression that agents and the publishing industry are running scared. Maybe running isn’t the right word. Ambling, then. It’s rather like the world’s attitute to climate change: we know it is going to be serious, but nobody seems willing to do much about it.