I’m guessing that by the time this appears on the old Blogaroonie, I’ll be suffering from some variety of monstrous hangover. Last night was/will be the Harrogate opening party thing, where they announce the Theakston’s Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year Award and hopefully hand out lots and lots of free Theakston’s Old Peculier. If you’ve never had it, it’s the beer equivalent of marmite – thick, dark, rich and delicious (OK, so marmite isn’t delicious, but She Who Must Be Mad likes it, so I thought I’d give it a plug), and very, very alcoholic. I plan to have drunk more than my fair share of it last night, so there’s no point trying to get any sort of sense out of me at the breakfast table, where I will be ingesting half a ton of greasy-fried animal products.
Agent Phil (have you seen my trousers?) is making noises about going for a swim every morning. Some hopelessly optimistic part of me thinks that this is a good idea for working off the drink from the night before. The more realistically-orientated rest of me thinks I’ll probably just sink. But I’ll pack the old trunks and give it a go anyway. Shock the locals with my pasty, Scottish body. That’ll teach them.