Listen, Boris, I don’t want a bike. I want to be able to get
from Lancaster Gate to St.Paul’s by underground, which is only 7 stops, without
having to take out a mortgage on the house. What’s happened to tube fares? Time
was, I could spend the day skipping round London on the tube and still have
change from two farthings. Or at least still have change from a couple of £50
notes. Bring back Red Ken.
Oh, and the People’s Book Prize Do was fun in a slightly
hysterical way. A sort of convergence under a lot of gilding, in which only the
waiters seemed to be quite sure what they were doing. My considered thoughts on it? Well, the goat’s
cheese went surprisingly well with the smoked salmon – didn’t overwhelm it as I
had feared, and the confit of duck with fig was excellent although I thought
the dauphinoise potatoes a little too rich as an accompaniment. One spoonful of
delicately wilted spinach does not add up to 5 a day, but overall, very good.
Oh yes, and there were some prizes. Which I did not win,
although I was one of the three finalists for the Beryl Bainbridge award for
first book, so I got to stand on stage and pretend not to feel an idiot.
And I got to race Frederick Forsyth for the
toilets at the end. Not many people can say that.
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