Meanwhile, here’s a little something that Christoper Fowler discovered where letters dance on a page: GO HERE

Registering was a breeze, especially as the lady behind the table half-recognized me, and was part-way locating my material as I approached. Confirming my identity as a mere formality by showing her my Driver’s Licence, I turned to the second stage of the task, which was the receiving of the ‘goodie bag’ for the convention, containing donated volumes and bits of promotional bumpf from various authors, publishers, and so on. With the warning “are you ready for this?” a black, nylon  carry-bag with two-inch-wide shoulder strap was handed to me, at which point my arm was nearly torn out of its socket due to the weight of the thing. Truly this was not a simple ‘swag bag’, but a veritable Bag of Brobdignagian Bundle of Books! Granted, the inclusion of a three-inch-thick hardback book as the “Souvenir Programme”, a massive full-colour volume about Basil Copper, plus an equally thick zombie graphic novel collection were a fair bit responsible for the weight on their own, but the sheer volume of the material was literally causing people to be seen staggering around the lobby. In the end I shipped most of it home–so as to avoid being 100KG over my luggage allowance–but the Basil Copper and Zombie Comic books were left for someone who might want them more than I did.

The actual convention events were mostly held in the historic Royal Albion Hôtel [image, left, is not of the hotel], located literally across the road from the entrance to the Brighton Pier. For those of you located in North America, something in the UK which is called “historic” is not built following the death of Her late Majesty Queen Victoria in 1901, but likely was constructed long before her birth in1819. In this case, the building was originally three different ones that have been combined into one rambling confusion of room styles and turning passageways. This non-linear layout is often described as “charming” and/or possessing an “unique character”. If you like Bauhaus-styled minimalism, events held in these sorts of buildings are not for you.

In fact, the most historical portion of the building is the third of it furthest west, which is where the Dealers’ Room happened to be located for the event. Well, actually, it was comprised of two rooms, plus the outer hallway. Still, there were wondrous things to be easily found there, some of which were the books of Atomic Fez Publishing. Hooray!

I admit that my book table’s location–right inside the door of the main Dealers’ Room–was likely of some fair help in sales being fairly good, plus the fact the titles were more ‘WHC-oriented” in their content than not. Additionally, the outside rear cover of the “Pocket Programme” (a hard-backed, jacket-less, slim, 80-page volume of a page size sufficient to burst any pocket available, save for those of a Sherpa’s overcoat) displayed a full-colour Atomic Fez advert of the “soft-sell”, “welcome to the event… have a good time… stop by for a chat… then please buy some books” variety, which provided a 50/50 chance of people seeing it every time they tossed it down on the bed in their room or on the chair next to them attending a panel discussion. One actual side-effect of the ad was that people thought Atomic Fez had something to do with the production of the book, which wasn’t the case; it was due much to the efforts of the fine team of PS Publishing, run by the equally fine Peter Crowther, and I had nothing to do with it at all except paying for the ad space.

The principle aim for this 1st event of the two during this trip was basically three-fold:

1. show-up
2. prove the books exist and weren’t merely a “hoped to be ready eventually” rumour
3. hold my head up in UK’s literary public events

So, on those levels, all was success.

The first day presented the initial point at which I was challenged to defy the laws of both physics and the rules governing the space/time continuum–being in two places at the same time–as the Pitch Black session started at noon and ran until 17:00, but the Dealers’ Room opened at 14:00 and ran until 18:00. A bit tricky, but as there was a delay with delivery of the books, this worked out just fine in the end. Granted, upon being informed that the boxes of books had arrived, the response “FUCKING YEAH!!!” whilst punching the air might not have been the most professional thing to cry after breaking off in the middle of someone’s pitch about their book proposal. I’m not sure if taking a breath, then turning back to the author at the time with the mild-voiced question “So… about these stories of yours…” was enough to mitigate the interruption, either. This was followed a few hours later, however, by the illustrious John Llewellyn Probert coming into the room–in the middle of a pitch by the particularly quiet and soignée Anna Taborska about a collection of her stories–and lying on top of me whilst I cried “you know I prefer it when you’re on the bottom!” Poor JLP, he’d no idea that it was the Pitch Black session, thinking he had located me in the Dealers’ Room; although I’m not sure how this might have been better. Ms Taborska is likely still stunned.

The Pitch Black session was good for both sides of the table, in my view, as it provided many authors the opportunity to pitch their works–possibly for the first time in their career–to some people in the publishing industry they mightn’t otherwise have had any access to; as well as giving those agents and publishers on the opposing side of the table a ‘quick and dirty’ overview of people we’d not heard of prior to then. If money was no obstacle, and there was an un-limited amount of time to accomplish things, many of the proposals from that session would be pursued further to examine the viability of the matter in greater detail. In short, another success. Yes, there were some who were labelled ‘loonies’–and for good reason–but one recalls a attending a cattle-call style of audition for the national touring production of a major musical being done a fair bit less than entirely great. The first time isn’t the greatest in so many matters, but it’s important to get things started in order to improve.

On the final day of the event–Sunday at noon–there was the panel discussion of ‘the New Pan Books of Horror’, covering the anthologies which came after the ‘official’ Pan Books of Horror Stories; both the semi-official and those which were rather less than so, such as the two Humdrumming Books of Horror Stories which I edited. Not only was this the first panel I had even been on, Stephen Jones (editor of an on-going series of immensely influential anthologies) was sitting right next to me. Considering this–plus the location being the grand lounge used to hold the opening and closing ceremonies and all of the Guest of Honour Interviews–the fact the crowd was on the sparse side was actually a relief. It seemed to go well, though; people were generally amused and pleased to have attended. Generally the discussion covered the final stage of the famous anthologies, as well as an attempt to revive the series shortly after Steve Jones took over editing duties of the material for the purposes of a “Best of…” volume of the previous thirty-or-so Pan… editions, as well as the loss of much of the original painted cover artworks, some rather dodgy business practices of the titular editor Herbert van Thal, and the question of whether the re-issue of the very first Pan Books’ volume signalled a one-off nostalgia cash-in or if it could be parleyed into a new series of volumes. A pleasant hour, if nothing else.

During the convention, an amazing number of events took place, but the one which is most likely to live in infamy was the party held on the Friday evening at the furthest end of the Brighton Pier. Its supply of food and drink was immense, with the Host Bar bearing a reported £5,000 drink limit for any one individual attending it. Sponsored by a few American writers, the party was roundly praised as surpassing any level of Bacchanalian revelry ever seen before by those attending. In addition to the sheer volume of it, the quality of food and drink was inestimable by anyone returning to the hotel later. Oddly, I didn’t attend, as I was fighting the final bits of jet-lag, and had already noticed my voice dropping an octave owing to its over-use and possible influence of Guinness drinking. During the final ten days of my trip a year-and-a-half ago I was fighting some kind of mild cold which was more annoying than debilitating, but a repeat wasn’t something I wanted to experience.

As a promotional event, the book by “Lord Probert” was given a “Win a Champagne Breakfast with the Author” contest, complete with a ‘golden ticket’ tucked inside one of the copies of Wicked Delights. As a result, the delightfully charming Stephen Bacon was blessed with the opportunity to ‘break his fast’ in the company of Lord & Lady Probert with the wonderful accompaniment of fine champagne!! The downside of this was I was also in attendance… into every life a little rain must fall…

John Llewellyn Probert (say the initial “ll” correctly and be rewarded with a goggle-eyed expression of surprise, by the way) and his “Lady Kate” are an equally matched barmy couple; if his arrival in the Pitch Black session a few paragraphs ago didn’t make clear his nature. On the Friday evening (while sordid things were done on the pier), the two of them brought the 1968 film Corruption to life on stage with only the two of them, a couple of chairs, and an assortment of props. The result was insane,  hysterical, and probably better produced than the original film. Thanks to the skills of the vast personnel in “Lord Froggy’s Dungeon”, we present for you here this FINE THEATRICAL PERFORMANCE, complete with GUARANTEED ACTUAL ATTRACTIVE FEMALE (she’s the one with the North American accent; the one that sounds British is male).

Also insanely funny was the two-man performance by Nathaniel Tapley and John Hopkins (I think it was John, anyway) Darren Strange, collectively known as In the Gloaming. That was the Friday evening, with a performance by them on the Saturday evening with the full group of players, which I missed owing to going to bed a bit early.

Prior to the insanity above, at the start of the evening’s entertainment, was a performance of the M.R. James story “A Warning to the Curious”, as a one-man performance by Mr. ____ Lloyd-Perry. It was an incredibly deep one, delivering a reality not normally experienced from a story nearly a century old. A brilliant, spooky, and moving performance, and one to see if you attend some sort of even such as WHC.

On the Saturday evening, the AMA “Stoker Awards” Banquet was held on the Brighton Pier. The main course was ‘Fish & Chips’, but as an hors d’œuvre we had paté. This was something to which I was intestinally un-prepared for (at home I’m mostly vegetarian) and suddenly introducing something as ‘hard-core dead-animal food’ was a bit of a jolt to the system. The next morning the tum was a bit ‘oooogly’ (if that makes any sense to you). As paté goes, it was ‘okay’, but not thrilling, so the end result wasn’t worth the consumption. Next time I’ll try to ‘ease-up’ on the matter in stages, possibly by bringing down a live gazelle with my bare hands and tearing flesh from its skeleton with my teeth whilst it is still thrashing about in agony.

On the Sunday afternoon, John Travis did a reading from his first novel The Terror and the Tortoiseshell, using a version of its prologue on which I had done some editing of the text so as to keep it within the permitted time-slot’s length. It went quite well, with John paying particular attention to not rushing, permitting the listeners to properly take-in the material as he presented it.

So, all-in-all, everything went well. Books were sold, people were entertained, and no-one punched me in the eye. HOORAY!

Here’s the front of the “Times”, with a big photograph on it this morning!

Yes, it is big, Charlie. Here’s the “Independent”, which seems more restrained than the “Times” does; it’s not got a picture on the front at all today.

No, but here’s a really large photo, right next to a large headline; but it’s the “Daily Mail”, so that’s not really surprising is it?

Granted, they’re not called “hosts” here, they’re “presenters”, which is exactly what they’re doing: presenting you with the morning’s newspapers. They’ve been doing this since my first trip in 2007, and don’t seem to have stopped once. Why do they do this, is the question.

Perhaps they feel the need to remind people that–despite the fact they’re watching television–there still are newspapers out there, and are holding them up as some sort of historical curiosity akin to coverage of the Staffordshire Horde?

Here’s something they sent to us from the collection of the British Museum: it’s a little egg made by a French feller called Fabergé, and which was once owned by a Russian Czar! Isn’t it pretty? Look at those red parts; they’re made of rock crystal! There’s only a few of these eggs left, because a lot of them have been lost over the years. This one is over a hundred years old now!

Yes, that’s quite nice, isn’t it? There are many things from the past that are quite pretty that aren’t made anymore. Here’s something else with a lot of red on it, and someone also made-it-up, it’s called “The Sun”, and it’s got both a picture and words on the front! Lots of them, see?

Gosh! Those are a lot of words, Susanna! Now here’s something that hasn’t any red in: it’s a picture our editor Alison got from her daughter yesterday: it’s a picture of a house, with a bird on the roof!

Is it a [slowly, for the dimmer viewers] ‘bird house’, Bill?

No, just a house. There only happens to be a bird on the roof. Life’s funny like that eh?

So it is, Bill… so it is…

[THEY look at the camera with expressions of “golly, it’s all a bit too much sometimes, eh?”]

The actual use of this ‘newspaper displaying’ is–while not professed, it is certainly implied–presumably a way of taking the temperature of the people, or at least the things people will be babbling about during the day at work, and later at the pub. ‘Did you hear what the PM says he’s going to do?’ ‘Yeah, saw the front of The Standard on the way here… makes you sick, innit?’ To my mind, it does seem a bit more than that, however, with news being made of the front pages of newspapers. Soon, perhaps, we’ll see coverage on the front pages of what papers weren’t held up during the broadcast: “What the BBC Won’t Show You!” and it’ll all go around again until people are fed-up and have thrown their televisions at ‘the grocers’ newsman: Rupert Murdoch.

Answers on a postcard, please.

But first, we have to get there. Off to St. Pancras International Station–with easily the most uncomfortable public seating in the known world–to locate the Chiltern Railways run headed the right direction, and an hour later I’m in Brighton! Hooray!

While I’m getting there the old-fashioned way, you can get there in a matter of four minutes (plus another 60 seconds to find a comfortable seat before the train gets started and some time to catch your breath at the other end).

So… now that you’ve arrived–and so have I–let’s go to the World HorrorCon, shall we?

The international event in Brighton went quite well. It was fascinating to have the opportunity to see a clash of cultures in microcosm with the self-driven positive promotion of the American attendees–wearing their emotions very much on the surface of the moment–with the members of England’s delegation who tended to be of a more restrained and humble demeanour–and very much leant to the ‘it’s a pleasing moment’ when expressing their incredible joy. While expected, the contrast was considerably more distinct than anticipated. During the closing ceremonies, the event was described as ‘the best ever’, ‘very very very good’, the “red shirt” helpers running around doing the little things required to ensure events ran smoothly ‘worked really incredibly hard doing a huge amount of difficult work’, the artists who were displayed in an exhibition were “the finest artists working in the world today’ and the display was ‘the best exhibition ever’, and people attending were thanked for ‘travelling incredible distances’ to ensure that this was ‘truly a proper World event of incredible proportions and diversity’.

Hyperbole injection, anyone?

Following the Stoker Awards ceremony, at least one UK person was heard to describe the affair as ‘clearly an attempt to out-do Hollywood’ with its use of video-taped message from the Chair of the AHA–an attempted high-production affair which was plagued by badly synced sound and an already reverb-laden recording being played on a sound system in a reverb-laden room, at too low a volume to hear properly anyway, with incredibly slow pacing, albeit with rather attractive costuming and a fine example of a rack… and the set dressing had some nice torture devices as well–as well as a few grumbles about ‘and there was all this clapping you had to do, as if you bloody cared about all these people you’ve never heard of; WOO! WOO-HOOOO! all the bloody time… and then you had to stand-up… PFAH! I don’t think I’ll go to another fucking awards thing ever again!’

I, on the other hand, have often noticed and enjoyed the dignified restraint of the UK-held events where ‘excellence’ is recognized, yet completely understand the outbursts of enthusiasm during American-held ones. This may explain better than any other way what sort of people Canadians are. Flexible, easy-going, adaptable. We see both sides, respect and understand the differences, and celebrate the diversity of human behaviour.

Either that or we simply are obsequious bastards who need to be loved by everyone.

The afternoon of leaving Brighton, I toured the Pavilion [exterior image, right; sadly, no pictures are allowed inside], which was INCREDIBLE. Both Crazy Legs and Christopher Fowler were quite right to say/command that “one must visit it”. The overt-sensuality and explosion of Chinoisery of the Banquet and Music Halls were perfectly off-set by the less temperate elegance of the Salon and Music Gallery. Much of the building seems to be open to viewing, but there are no doubt treasures that remain out of sight.

The gardens could be improved, but there was no mention of them ever being a remarkable thing to the eye during either its use by the Prince of Wales/Regent/King George the IV or Queen Victoria. Given the beauty within its walls, it might not have been seen as necessary to have outdoor works of visual splendour. ‘Splendour’ certainly is not in short supply there, that’s for sure.

NEXT POST: more about the World HorrorCon itself, as well as its events.

The last few hours were spent packing the things deemed “cannot do without” such as socks, underwear, shirts, and the fez. Also gifties for people I’ll be seeing who deserve said things. Chances are that they’ll not appreciate it… but I’ll feel better for having provided something a little extra for them. Total baggage weight came in just under the allowance, so all is well.

On the way to the airport, Jennifer and I had a spirited discussion about current events (proposal has been made for municipal elections to provide voting power to businesses, in addition to citizens. Our considered opinion: “that’s dumb! They’d be dumb to do that! That’d be, like, DUMB!” So we got that sorted easily, as well as the typical last-minute stuff, like what to do when the books arrive from the printers while I’m gone and so on.

Air Canada has power at the seats! I can re-charge my lap-top while they fly! Hooray!

Also fun is the touch-screen entertainment system… although mine froze-up playing Kate Bush’s album The Kick Inside. I’m not blaming her, though.

Some sort of dinner suddenly arrives, and smells like spicy… thing. In the end it’s Chicken Penne in a tomato sauce of decent taste, as well as a corn / haricots vert / julienne carrot vinaigrette salad, and a chocolate brownie with chocolate poured upon it. Granted the bread-like object that came with dinner could have used some sort of leavening agent; while not actually matzo, it could hardly have been called ‘a light, fluffy, Euro-inspired piece of dinner bread’. How one has the gall to be so picky at 35,000 feet whilst travelling at 569 MPH though air at a temperature of –70.6°F is beyond me, but this is something one does after spending what seems to be too much money for bad food.

How is it that the little plastic knife disappears as soon as it’s placed on the tray? It’s probably around my ankle somewhere, about to stab itself into my leg when I attempt to get comfy under the little blue blankey they give you (wrapped in plastic for you to stay awake wondering what to do with the crinkly stuff for hours until we land!). If you have the answer for these things, fortunes will be lain at your feet! Or, more probably, you’ll get a nice, firm, handshake of thanks.

Louis C.K. has it right, however: when you leave the ground, you should turn to someone and yell: HOLY SHIT! WE’RE IN THE SKY! THIS IS AWESOME! LOOK OUT THE WINDOW! WE’RE FLYING! WOW! LOOK HOW HIGH WE ARE NOW! MAN, THIS IS… WOW, LOOK AT THE CLOUDS! WE’RE IN THE CLOUDS, MAN!

I suspect that if I actually do this, however, the Nordic gentleman sitting next to me will either not understand a word I’m saying, punch me in the face until I am no longer conscious, or both. As he’s taking the ‘do not eat the offered meal, drink equal amounts of beer and mineral water, read a magazine while also watching a French movie with English sub-titles making fun of both Italians and Germans equally, and then ordering more beer and water’ approach to changing time zones, the best course of action is to simply sit here and type away industriously whilst listening to an Art Blakey album and sip my apple juice and water, and make not a sound. How odd: he’s wearing two wrist-watches of equal complexity.

In a short while perhaps I’ll ignore the enRoute entertainment system some more and watch some more of Blake’s 7. Then nap. Because it’s after 5:30AM in London now.

There is, for instance, the possibility of a strike by both the Network Rail and the Rail Maritime and Transport unions in England come Easter Weekend that could result in the UK’s collective inter-city rail system coming to a screaming halt, although they’re discussing ways to avoid this taking place. There’s been some pondering amongst some about whether this will have an effect on the number of people attending Odyssey 2010 (AKA: “EasterCon”), but I’m using the tube to get to Heathrow at that point on the calendar. ‘All good’, then.

British Airways is having labour trouble right now, wherein striking cabin crews have forced BA to cancel 1,100 flights, but I’m flying both to and from England on Air Canada. Fine there as well.

So… when this week’s episode of the Rick Mercer Report shows the following satirical commercial, fear enters my soul at the prospect of the following taking place in the middle of the afternoon tomorrow.

It’s probable that this ‘bit’ was created by Mr. Mercer as a reaction to being bumped from one domestic flight to another while travelling around Canada for the show. There’s been a few times I’ve heard of them cancelling FLIGHT-A and then putting those people onto FLIGHT-B so as to make a full compliment of passengers, which is fine in theory, but then why bother offering the additional flight in the first place? If there’s not sufficient trade for the offering of both flights, then it’s simply false advertising to say “we fly from Winnipeg to Vancouver 17 times a day!” and then cancel over half of them, isn’t it?

This doesn’t necessarily mean a damned thing about my flight from Vancouver to London, however. There’s a considerable difference between, for instance, flying from Toronto to Boston and flying across the entire Polar Region and North Atlantic. Perhaps there’s some sort of requirement for Air Canada to offer a particular number of domestic flights from one particular area to another in order to get their approval to fly to however many international centres they desire to serve. Anyone out there have any ideas about this? Is there an additional aspect to this based entirely on the fact that the people responsible for schedules are as thick as concrete on a hot day?

I’m planning of arriving as soon-ish as possible at the airport; that way they’ve less chance to do me out of a seat, even though the tickets have been paid for and reserved for weeks. The earlier you’re there, the better the possibility that the flight is not already fully assigned, making you SOL. Perhaps I really ought to have arrived there last Friday…?

One thing I will get to experience is the embarrassment of having someone call upstairs to make sure it’s alright to let me on the plane. This has happened both times I’ve flown, and at each end of the voyage: arrive at check-in, provide ticket details and passport, state no real preference about seating (other than ‘as far away from the drunken louts as possible’), wait patiently as we whip through a list of things no-one should ever say ‘yes’ to, even if true (have you left your luggage unattended for any length of time? were you approached by anyone asking you to transport something for them? did you agree? is there anything explosive in your bags? are you secreting heroin in your anal cavity? are you planning on doing any performance art whilst at your destination featuring inflatable donkeys, nudity, or both?), have the baggage weighed, then wait… and wait… while the poor soul behind the desk tries to figure out whether or not to explain that there’s a bloody huge red box flashing on their screen saying THIS PERSON IS ON A LIST OF PEOPLE WHO, WHEN FLYING, SOMEONE IMPORTANT HAS TO BE TOLD ABOUT IT. Typically the ticketing person has explained that they’ve got to call Security because they randomly are asked to do so (although the point of that process has never been stated), ask if I reserved my flight using my full name (I always do that for anything, not just flights), or simply look at me to check there’s not some odd bulge under my jacket that’s vaguely shaped like a side-arm and then run screaming for the door into their office.

Granted, the English author Michael Marshall Smith gets hauled into one of the interview rooms every time he goes to the USA, so I suppose the telephone call is the least of my concerns. Why I’m flagged is beyond me. I have no criminal record, I’ve never served in the Armed Forces, and have only occasionally called for the overthrow of a government (typically advocating for the use of a UN-approved democratic process).

The main worry right now is counting numbers of socks and boxer shorts, then determining how much everything weighs. My main piece of luggage allows for fifty pounds (50 LBS), which ought to be enough for anyone as tiny as myself. Even allowing for the promotional material being taken, I should be fine.

Something new to this trip is that one small piece of luggage goes with you into the cabin, one piece of luggage is checked and stored in the belly of the aeroplane, and the third piece of luggage doesn’t go into the belly as usual but instead goes with you into the cabin. This seems… well, odd. If this is safety-based, one would think that it would be ‘safer’ to have as much of one’s stuff go into the belly where people can’t get at it, and just make sure someone scans the crap out of it before loading anything. If scanning is more stringent for carry-on baggage, then why are you letting me put anything in the cargo hold? On the other hand, perhaps the whole thing is based on balance, and putting more weight in the vertical centre of the tube… makes it… easier to fly… the aircraft…?

Please don’t try that bit of logic at home. I am not an aeronautical engineer, nor have I even played one on TV.

Jennifer is driving me out to the airport to see me off properly. Nice. Frankly, I’d rather use the Canada Line, if only to be able to say that I went from the house to my hotel in London–door-to-door–without using an automobile, but that can be accomplished on the return.

Now… to check the dryer for more socks so I can stop worrying about finding somewhere to buy some there…

How is all this possible, given the previous mention of my penurious state? It’s quite simple: VISA, and a loving, supportive wife.

Why this is being trumpeted here and not in a post on the Atomic Fez site is because much of this trip’s musings will have little to do with the books themselves, ‘Official Statements’, or the like. Yes, declarations of successful events engaged in at World HorrorCon–such as pitch sessions or panel discussions, for instance–will be found there, for it is appropriate for them to be there. On the other hand, statements such as my father’s question last autumn “why does every breakfast involve baked beans here?” or my own surprise that “not only can I wander anywhere around the hotel carrying a pint, people don’t understand my surprise that it’s allowed even after I explain about BC liquor laws” aren’t really something that has anything to do with the book trade. Some might suggest that alcohol of any sort has a great deal to do with the book trade, but that’s another matter entirely.

The trip involves me being there from the 23rd of March to the 8th of April, during which I check into hotels on a total of five different occasions. Granted, occasions number three and five involve the same hotel, but there’s still the ‘registration and settling’ period which takes a period of time to accomplish. Hardly much of a help, then.

There are a few things I’ve planned to accomplish while there, but most of the ‘big goals’ were accomplished last time London was viewed. That said, there are things to be done:

• the other 95% of the British Museum which wasn’t seen due to over-dosing on the Enlightenment Gallery
  • especially important is seeing The Staffordshire Hoard display
• the other 66% of the National Gallery and all of the National Portrait Gallery that were missed last time
• possibly chunks of The Tate Modern as only the Turbine Hall was viewed in the autumn of 2008
• it might be good to see Piccadilly Circus / the Houses of Parliament / Hyde Park / the Lloyd’s Building (at night this time) in order to say one had done so
• if there’s some sort of exciting music gig I might check it out, but the following being held at Royal Albert Hall are unlikely to be seen:
  • The Who, performing Quadrophenia and other ‘classic rock’, mostly due to it being sold out and more expensive than can be comprehensible
  • The Specials, re-formed–unless you listen to Jerry Dammers–and on their 30th Anniversary tour, because the tickets are £35 and up, plus it just doesn’t seem the right venue to be listening to those up-beat, 2-tone, dance-happy Ska-legends, really, does it…?
• Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club doesn’t have anything exciting scheduled even, which is a shame.
• there are a few pubs which haven’t been seen yet… for their historical merit, obviously.

Mostly, however, the principle thing I want to do during the few ‘off days’ while there is exercise my skills as a flâneur, do things as the mood strikes, and see what happens by chance. This is probably the best attitude to have during any travel, but one of the Major World Cities it’s easy to make lists of THINGS ONE MUST SEE WHETHER YOU HAVE TIME TO APPRECIATE THEM OR NOT. Understandable, yet not something enjoyable in the end, as all one ends up with is a piece of paper with check-marks and little memory of the things they’re marking have been accomplished.

As most of the time will be spent endlessly standing in a large, airless hotel convention room encouraging people to part with their cash in return for books, the few occasions one can do something ‘fun’ oughtn’t to be filled with too much work or ‘expected results within the following time frame’. So it won’t.

It’s certainly hoped that this is the beginning of actually making something of myself as a ‘real adult’. As I’ll be hitting 44-years-of-age the same day of the return flight, that may seem an odd statement, but it’s not. To be this old, yet never having been particularly successful in any of one’s previously chosen professions, and now be seemingly un-able to hold down ‘a real job’ (owing to varying levels of ability on a day-to-day basis), as well as equally relying on one’s partner for supporting oneself… well, it makes one rather sad, even if one wasn’t dealing with chronic and clinically diagnosed depression.

Given the amount of time one has left, plus the amount of money and time spent leading to this particular campaign of accomplishment, there’s a lot riding on this. Good or bad, it’s all up to me.

About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow

–“A Shropshire Lad” [1896]; Nº2, st. iii

I wonder what the people in the Canadian Maritimes are doing right now…? Probably giggling at us, I suspect.