Spend most of morning standing in saleroom, eyeing up fellow dealers, waiting to bid on large box of old linen. Not just any old linen either. Fabulously embroidered old linen, of the sort that only comes along once in a blue moon. And this has been a very blue moon. With some TLC it will keep my eBay shop in contented buyers for many weeks. Carry it home in triumph. Actually, I carry it home in my sister-in-law's Citroen, parked half a mile away from the saleroom. Divide it into two big boxes, and stagger along with one each. 'Getting...too...old...for this' we gasp at each other as we go. On reflection, was never young enough for carrying these kind of weights, but seem to have spent most of life to date hefting blocks of wood in one form or another (married to woodcarver) now exchanged for linen. Which weighs a ton. Immense college students lumber past ignoring our groans. Only help offered by smartly dressed pensioner. Smile nicely, say thank-you, but decline kind offer. He would have heart failure, and we would feel guilty. Have had back twinges ever since.
Have also had more twinges of gloom. Big self doubts. Have been writing professionally for more than thirty years. Aaaargh and double aaargh as Bridget would say. Have had several books published, many many many plays produced for stage and radio and literally hundreds of other projects successfully completed.
Am nice to people, and can speak in public without a microphone.
Can make people laugh.
Scrub up nicely and am not bad looking.
So why does nobody at the business end want to know? What am I doing wrong?
Writer Friend says have to be 15 years old and put a dragon in the story somewhere. This is even more depressing but probably true.
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