Not only do we have mice, but now we’ve got in-laws as well. She Who Must’s mum and dad have invaded the house, like Martians. Except without the green skin, tentacles and propensity of eating human brains – well, only on the big religious holidays, but you know what it’s like when you have to make your own entertainment. They have come to look after Little Miss while Fiona and I are away in Edinburgh for the International Book Festival. Which is nice: we get a break (even if it is work for me) and don’t have to worry too much about The Killer of Mice.
Speaking of the Edinburgh thing, this will be the first time Fiona’s been allowed to accompany me on a jolly. Not sure if she’s going to come to the panel thing or not – she’s worried about cramping my style... Hey lovely groupie ladies, you wanna come back to my place and weed the vegetable patch?* Probably doesn’t help that I haven’t got a clue what I’m going to be doing tomorrow evening (20:30 in the Studio Theatre, come along and throw things if you like). I’m screwed if we’ve got to give a reading; I’ve not rehearsed anything, and with the in-laws here it’s going to be a bit difficult to disappear off and have a practice**.
Still, I have no doubt it will be an interesting evening. I plan on taking full advantage of Edinburgh’s burgeoning public bar system when the panel’s finished. And though I doubt I’ll get plastered enough to risk a deep-fried pizza (my innards aren’t as young as they used to be), you never know.
* And no: that’s not a euphemism for anything dirty.
** And neither is that.