I turn up early. I'm hot, sweaty and obviously from out of town. Someone I recognise takes pity on me, but I end up rambling.
Thankfully I can hide by watching the readings, all crammed into a downstairs cupboard, the writers and audience have to smell each others' discomfort, Christ do my tits keep getting in the official photos?
Everyone seems to be talking about cunts, I'm feet away from Stewart Home as he recites his clever porn, I try to listen intelligently and not stare like a stalker-pervert.
I only see fragments of No Bra from the stairs and have to sneak up to snap her for blog purposes.
As I'm clock watching for my train back, I suddenly see more people I know and should give more of my attention to, like David B & Esther, but I just twitter about having to get back to Birmingham (I always worry this makes me seem less cool, but seem to have a compulsion to mention where I live all the time, maybe it comes across as having an admirable committment for coming in the first place).
On the train I crack open the skin around the book with a nearly erotic pleasure, and read with the tingling ginseng-alert feeling good writing gives me.
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