8th of December.
Laid hastily in the sink, cellophane wrapped lilies and roses lie in cold water, boxes of wine clutter the kitchen floor, shopping bags slump on work surfaces. Quickly I slip away frozen and fridge items.
In the mirror give my hair a flick my lips a lick of ‘hot cherry’ lipstick, from its new glitzy gold case.
Whisk out cats, and leave the house. Stop a moment to look up and breath a blast of starlight before heading off once more.
The Meal.
Meeting up at 6.15, we pick a passage through the jigsaw of chairs in the lounge bar, beneath a sparkling canopy of decorations, past a crackling log fire and party people, to settle in a window seat with a view down the High St. to where the second event of our evening will unfold.
Awaiting the meal we discuss the challenge of writing two thousand words in an evening after work, and editing them before dawn.
Think, perhaps they could write themselves, like the story of the elves and the shoemaker,
Then I am distracted by the table’s high deep gloss, it sucks me in, and flits my mind to polishing not publishing. My friend, provoked too by the pressing interior talks of his disgust for, dogs and rugs, as opposed to cats and carpets.
As I have more cat than carpet, I was comfortable with that.
Our meals arrive before 7, this was contrary to the rules above the bar and for that I was glad.
Glad because I’m hungry and because earlier that evening I was rebellious.
The Story.
It began with a sprint to Telford to source Scarlet items and some practical purchases for Christmas.
I thought I’d been lucky getting off lightly with the lips, evading the expert selling of the sales woman at the Yves-Saint-Laurent stand who made me up.
I turned down the bronzing powder, nail varnish and lip-liner, but opted for the holly berry lippy that was seasonal and casually dazzling with my fashionable greys.
It may have been the bold lipstick that gave me the balls to nip into the Gents toilet rather than hover politely with the women in the queue crushed against the door in the neighbouring tiny facility.
In our massive Sainsbury’s one solitary Ladies toilet was on offer that evening for the elimination of its products.
Pity they aren’t as economical with their packaging.
Coming out of the Men’s unscathed, I collided with a surprised gent’ walking in, confused he apologised and glanced up at the other door sign, only to have my female form affirmed.
‘‘You aren’t wrong, I am, I was desperate’’ I said as we brushed past each other and I smiled my red mouth, hoping I wouldn’t to be arrested later, while I gathered into my trolley half their wine offers , flowers and tasty goodies for my forthcoming Gallery event, items that lie neglected back at home.
This story told, meal eaten, it was time to leave, and we are ready for more tales with the evening’s main event.
A reading with author, Ali Smith, organized by Anna of ‘Wenlock Books’.
The Reading.
At Eden’s about fifteen people I didn’t know had arrived and were relaxed and mostly seated. Garlanded along the beams were holly stems, on tables sherry poured with smiles, and Dylan’s ‘Modern Times’, plays from the speakers. A cosy mood mixed with a prickle of anticipation for the visit of a famous author.
Anna announces the event with a warm welcome to Ali who begins with reading the opening chapters to ‘The Accidental’.
Listening to the words she reads, that I’d heard in my head when I read it, but now they were out loud and joined with their instigator.
Written in the present tense, the words at once became alive, bumping and bubbling along in a stream of consciousness, as if freshly conceived.
Anna’s intelligent questions gently draw out interesting details from the writer.
Later she told us her idea for the original story had been different and how a dream intercepted the plan, and the opening of the story with, the cinema and the film, she wrote down after the dream.
Awakening again next day realized this was to be the actual start of her book.
Discussions follow about a story taking its reader out in an arc and returning them a little changed. A reading group member asks Ali about what inspired her.
‘‘It’s about being open to our senses, she says, open to resonances that are all around us.
Brian Eno in Pink Floyd did that in his music.
Resonance is everywhere if we allow it in.
Sometimes the language is gesture as with the Chaplin films.
James Joyce in Finnegan’s Wake, the river says it, ‘small’s all.’’
Then the talking went onto forms in writing and because we are mortal and our lives have a beginning, middle, end, the story form reflects this.
Then Ali reads from ‘Writ’.
A piece about the older self in conversation with the younger self, conveying at times a humorous and compassionate exchange in their difficult dialogue. At moments pre-emptive suggestions like; ‘notice this, watch out for that, those are great opportunities,’ revelations of suppressed events, with, ‘well, I don’t remember that,’ expose concern. Her gangly young self bumping into furniture, clumsy because it’s bewildered by the body’s fast development.
We notice at this event we are in the main woman, my friend representing the tiny 4 percent of men. Women it seems read more fiction.
In the break we are offered homemade mince pies and coffee we are full and yet I want to hear more, but it’s time for book signing and individual chats.
I wait with my three books, one Ali signs for Jeff, it was he who lent me ‘The Accidental’, my first introduction to her work. ‘The Whole Story and other Stories’, she signs for my daughter, and for me,
‘The Reader’, about this book she says she feels nervous.
Here is a vulnerable and successful author with her unfolding stories. They’re like flowers blossoming, wind fanning open petals to an audience impatient for red fruit.