Seven Fiction Workhouse inmates escaped and we met in London, many of us for the first time.
We decided to go on an organised walk, and chose one arranged by The Wellcome Collection, starting by Holborn Tube, lasting two hours, and entitled Blood Guts Children and Power.
We were led by a Byronesque young man brandishing a furled umbrella, who stopped in every Square and gave us a fascinating series of talks on the history of medicine. Turns out he is a prizewinning poet as well as a Byronesque walk guide... you'll have to ask Julia for details...
Lunh in a vegetarian Indian restaurant followed, and I dunno, for seven serious writers there was one helluva lot of noise.
The great Workhouse 'bloody animal' avatar debate continued over lunch, fuelled by bottleds of Cobra Beer. I am glad to report no further outbreaks, but a rather stubborn dog and cat remain. However, one has to give thanks that cartoon shetland ponies, hamsters and gerbils have been avoided.
I have threatened to make an avatar out of a ghastly photo of a half-decomposed cat, taken on an Ibiza beach. That would suit me perfectly.
The rest of Sunday I spent with my mate Tania, over from Jerusalem with her partner James. Ate far too much, in the wrong order. Strawberry cheesecake followed by sushi is an exciting mix.
I stayed overnight at The New Cavendish Club, where V has associate membership thanks to membership of a writing association.
The off to Cambridge to meet the great (or tiny) Jen from Salt Publishing. What a power house. And I'm SO jealous of her job... I'd love to be bringing the work of new writers to the shelves/shops/Amazon.
We had tried to meet before but several Acts of God had prevented us meeting. One bomb then a bout of concussion, from memory. Some people will just do anythig to get out of meeting me.
But this time, there were no possible excuses, and the little Italian caff in Cambridge called Clowns was perfect. We nattered for over two hours.
And V is now officially working on a flash collection and keeping fingers crossed.