London as usual, proved interesting and colourful.
Plenty of ‘Bent Brief’s’ flogged without too much flogging, sexy passes from a 68 year old and a desperate sort in an invalid scooter, reminded that my looks were going fifty shades of grey and beyond, but never mind.
For a while, a debate ensued about the unreadability of ‘literary’ perfection, the educated and pukka classes in particular seemed fed up with it all, but nevertheless hated the ubiquitous ‘beach books’ and hastily written clit-lit penny-packets that kept intruding upon their ‘good story’ lives.
Intelligent and sometimes saucy repartee was the order of the day, but who was I to complain – it sells books! Never mind the quality feel Ruck’s width! Damn that’s a bit near the bone eh? But only those in wrinkly twilight zones like me, will know what I’m on about!
These days, book signings are all about good looks, charm and a smile that can hypnotize a tiger about to pounce – of course the readability of one’s wares helps, sometimes anyway. At least, I wouldn’t like to to try doing them without a blazing sense of humour and a smart Windsor knot – my ‘looks’ don’t count for much after all!
It was good to be back in London, the mix, the multicultured chaos, the never-ending life. It was good to blend and be a passing face with nothing to say.