I've drunk a lot of wine and I'm feeling fine

The above is a lie, incidentally. I don't drink wine in the mornings, but the mental jukebox insists that this should be the title. It ought to be called 'what I did', but 'what I did' is a dull as ditchwater title, so I'm going with the jukebox option. Also I believe that this post directly contravenes Sunday's declaration of blogdeath, which just goes to show that I know myself rather well.

What I did was go to Decongested at Foyles and explore the finer points of podium clutching. I thought that podiums were a sort of pointless affectation, but as of Friday last I realise that they are a blessing when one needs something to clutch. Especially when you have had to wait until almost last for your go. Which is at least three quarters of an hour. Sitting next to a fidget.* And you have had to be quiet as well. Difficult for me at the best of times.

I was reading a story. Which I am contemplating posting up here, or somewhere else linked to here, at some point, one day, if I ever finish an illustration for it. The reading of the story made my hands shake something terrible; hence the podium clutching. I'm pretty sure I got away without the voice shake though, at least after the first paragraph.

There was a microphone, and an audience. The audience was filled with kind people who would clap the opening of a paper bag, and because of this it was impossible to tell whether or not they liked what they heard. I have decided to believe that they did. It seems best.

I mailed Little Friend Susan beforehand and expressed my disappointment that she was not in the country to hear my story. Her reply went something along the lines of 'I didn't know you wrote'. (It was much longer than that, and she should write a blog; but she's too busy excavating the middle east and actually thinks that the blog thing is incomprehensible. Funny girl.) I agree with her. I didn't know I wrote either.

*aka moral support and chief entertainer