Adventures 'sarf' of the river, aka When NOT to fangirl
I think we've all established that I am a daft and silly thing. But tonight my silliness knew no bounds. I should NOT have gone out tonight. After getting home, I discovered that my temperature is (and indeed was) running right about 100F. Not terribly clever, me, but I had told Rob that if he ever had a London book launch that I would go. Plus I was quite looking forward to seeing his lovely twinklie self, as it's been AGES.
Robert Shearman (Tiny Deaths) and Adam Marek (Instruction Manual for Swallowing) were having a joint book launch at Calder Books down near Southwark station this evening. So off I went to the book launch, which, despite tfl's assurances to the contrary, was a full fat hour by tube. (65 minutes fat as opposed to 55 minutes skinny.) I'll be generous and not count the 3 minute walk from the station at the far end. Luckily I made it through the door just as Rob was getting up to read. It was a cool story, one that I'd chuckled through during the first reading, but found all the more strange and lovely hearing it from the author himself.
For the record, I liked Adam's story as well. I plan to buy his book at some point, promise.
By the end of the readings, the tiny little bookshop was cozily full enough to worry Health & Safety. I squeezed through like a big hipped woman through a very crowded room, managing a quick hello to Rob before bee-lining to the door. I couldn't even stick around to meet his Mrs. My nose was stopped up, my ears were blocked and muffled like cotton-wool-stuffed plushy things, I was boiling like a kettle, and I was quite sure the sweat on my brow was copious enough to drown 3 hamsters and perhaps a small mouse if it breathed deeply enough. I had to flee. Actually, I needed to blow my nose.
But wait! Just then I spotted Steven Moffat standing mere inches away (approximately 60)! I couldn't go without saying hello. And perhaps fangirl a little. Much to my disappointment, I got as far as "I'm a huge fan of your work" before coming over all faint. Lest Steven think I'd come over faint at his expense, I fled before I'd barely gotten out my name and shaken his hand.
My ears ringing, my nose bunged up yet leaking like a council flat tap, my forehead soaked and my palms not much better, I made it outside without further incident. After a brief apology text to Rob for not staying, I headed home once more. 55 minute skinny hour home, in case you were wondering. Not 42 minutes, damn you tfl.
So. The stories were cool, and I went out and was supportive. But perhaps not the best fangirl adventure ever. Especially when meeting someone whose work has been so inspirational to my own over the past couple of years. Poor Steven. I handled myself better with both Mark Gatiss AND Neil Gaiman. Glad it wasn't Simon Pegg.
I'm going to bed and sleeping for a gajillion hours now. *sniffle*
Robert Shearman (Tiny Deaths) and Adam Marek (Instruction Manual for Swallowing) were having a joint book launch at Calder Books down near Southwark station this evening. So off I went to the book launch, which, despite tfl's assurances to the contrary, was a full fat hour by tube. (65 minutes fat as opposed to 55 minutes skinny.) I'll be generous and not count the 3 minute walk from the station at the far end. Luckily I made it through the door just as Rob was getting up to read. It was a cool story, one that I'd chuckled through during the first reading, but found all the more strange and lovely hearing it from the author himself.
For the record, I liked Adam's story as well. I plan to buy his book at some point, promise.
By the end of the readings, the tiny little bookshop was cozily full enough to worry Health & Safety. I squeezed through like a big hipped woman through a very crowded room, managing a quick hello to Rob before bee-lining to the door. I couldn't even stick around to meet his Mrs. My nose was stopped up, my ears were blocked and muffled like cotton-wool-stuffed plushy things, I was boiling like a kettle, and I was quite sure the sweat on my brow was copious enough to drown 3 hamsters and perhaps a small mouse if it breathed deeply enough. I had to flee. Actually, I needed to blow my nose.
But wait! Just then I spotted Steven Moffat standing mere inches away (approximately 60)! I couldn't go without saying hello. And perhaps fangirl a little. Much to my disappointment, I got as far as "I'm a huge fan of your work" before coming over all faint. Lest Steven think I'd come over faint at his expense, I fled before I'd barely gotten out my name and shaken his hand.
My ears ringing, my nose bunged up yet leaking like a council flat tap, my forehead soaked and my palms not much better, I made it outside without further incident. After a brief apology text to Rob for not staying, I headed home once more. 55 minute skinny hour home, in case you were wondering. Not 42 minutes, damn you tfl.
So. The stories were cool, and I went out and was supportive. But perhaps not the best fangirl adventure ever. Especially when meeting someone whose work has been so inspirational to my own over the past couple of years. Poor Steven. I handled myself better with both Mark Gatiss AND Neil Gaiman. Glad it wasn't Simon Pegg.
I'm going to bed and sleeping for a gajillion hours now. *sniffle*