By which I don't mean a prostitute from Elgin. That would be silly. Not that Elgin doesn't have its fair share of ladies of the mid-afternoon, I'm sure it does and... er... Time to stop digging.
Tomorrow She Who Must Accompany Me To Ensure I'm Not Mobbed By Nymphomaniac Groupies* and I will be making the arduous trip from Casa MacBride to the Elgin Public Library, where the Elgin Writers Group are hosting a two day festival of fun and frolics. Right up until the time I get there, then it'll all turn into a disaster. "Why?" You ask, in that winsome way of yours, well, I'll tell you (otherwise this would be a very short blog post with even less narrative cohesion than usual) they've asked me to talk to them about police procedure.
Honestly, just because I write police procedurals, people think I know what I'm on about. Which is worrying. I'm hastily rereading all my notes and trying to cram as much as I can betwixt my little ears, in order to pass on my dubious knowledge.
In other, non Elgin-related news: this weekend marks the end of voting for the Barry Awards, as run by those lovely people at Deadly Pleasures and announced at Bouchercon. I'm up for one, but don't let that sway you, we're not into ballot stuffing here (unless we're sure we can get away with it), you go off and vote for your favourite book. I see Misters Kernick and Billingham are up for Best British Novel. I wonder if they'll make them fight in a cage match, in their pants**, while people pelt them with half-sooked jelly babies? It's a thought anyway.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go out and squish some caterpillars. The freeloading buggers are munching my kohlrabi, but if you pinch them hard, you can get their innards to squirt quite a distance. Sqoooooooooosh!
Maybe I need to get out more?
* Well, we've all got to have a hobby, don't we?
** And in the UK pants are pants, not trousers. If the word 'pants' was meant to mean 'trousers' it wouldn't be spelt P-A-N-T-S, would it? Stands to reason.