On Wednesday I woke up at six but the morning somehow managed to spiral out of control, finding me rushing as I smacked on tricky new mascara purchased the night before just as the car was supposed to collect me at eight. The basic concept never change beauty routines when pressed for time has obviously not taken hold.
My hands were shaking as I wielded a potentially disfiguring cosmetic wand near my eyes and this was quite puzzling. I’m never nervous before these sort of events – instead, I fall apart after. I reviewed my mental files and decided the recent roster of bereavement was the likely source of the shakiness: two family members and one friend have died, and a close relative was institutionalized after a near lethal suicide attempt. All within about ten days.
Facts of that nature are difficult to contemplate at the best of times, let alone when circumstances dictate charisma be exercised. But my childhood taught me how to efficiently ignore unruly emotions and this proved useful for once: I finished getting ready and dashed out the door.
My publicist met me in the lobby of the BBC and we chatted with the other guests before being whisked into the studio. The show was highly entertaining though I made a fool of myself in front of a national audience, as is my habit.
I feel extremely lucky that the archive of Midweek disappears after a few weeks, since I am reliably informed that the recording includes something along these paraphrased lines (I’m not going to listen so I can’t provide a true quote):
Libby: Bee, why didn’t you speak to your therapist?
Bee (flatly): Working class people don’t do therapy. Talking about feelings? What are those? As far as I know I didn’t have feelings until last year.
After the show ended we had a lively short chat about radiation and nefarious government research projects (Hanford, anyone?) and then surged away to our various destinations.
The publicist guided me on to the next radio studio, but we were early and I fell into conversation with two bikers who were hugely entertaining. We chattered about assorted topics and they somehow extracted my version of what Lessons in Taxidermy is about, probably to the dismay of my publicist, who might wish that I giggled a bit less about things like childhood cancer.
The bikers, however, were great fun and not at all fazed even when we lurched across existential and metaphysical topics. It was in fact a lot like hanging out with my extended family. Later I was informed that they have a television program – they are literally Hairy Bikers.
The further chats with BBC regional programs went fantastically well and I stayed on form, remembering all of my media training and also what the book is about. Then it was took me to a series of bookstores to sign copies of the book and have charming conversations with book sellers, as always one of the best parts of my job!
We met Kate, my editor, at RIBA for lunch. They toasted me with champagne and we talked and laughed. The restaurant tables are arrayed around a central installation, this week a large strange wooden object, the bit nearest me offering the statement Learning within a reality that is messy needs to be a little messy itself.
Back at the radio station I chatted with the bikers a bit more before going on the air with BBC West Midlands, talking to a host who was significantly interested in my double vision story (or at least the gory bits of it). He asked about life on the boat, and why I decided to buy one so precipitously without any knowledge or experience. The answer is easy: I fell in love.
I said goodbye to the publicist and spent a few hours attempting to work on a newspaper article, with no success whatsoever, until Iain texted to ask if I fancied a drink. I met him near Oxford Circus and he took me to a very odd goth pub, where I told the tale of my day and we caught up on sundry things before setting off to a sushi dinner.
I’m not exactly sure how I met Iain – I suspect it had something do to with the Chloe fundraiser at the Horse Hospital – but our friendship is one of the best bits about living in this country. He also read my book and gave it to his agent, who in turn became my agent and sold it to Orion – meaning Iain is directly responsible for all of the fantastic things that have happened in my career this year.
Susan, Amanda, and Xtina met us at the restaurant and my agent served up hugs and kisses and a card addressed to my favorite mutant.
I am endlessly thankful to have so many good friends.
Back home in Cambridge I flung myself on the floor of the boat, curled into a ball, and cried for two hours.
My life is sometimes rather strange.