I spent an interesting Saturday night with fellow writers Steve Finbow, Melissa Mann, David Oprava and Joe Ridgwell. There was much drinking and discussion of the literary urge, although because of the former I recall little of the latter. I think some of it has perhaps sunk in, subconsciously.
After a couple of pints in The Boot and some (pricier ones) in The Harrison, we (minus Finbow) tagged along to a birthday gathering (the host's word, not mine, from which I understood that we shouldn't expect a party and, by implication, too much fun). It was in a tiny Camden flat with an awesome view of The Electric Ballroom entrance and its queue of stoned revellers. Apparently we were welcome at the gathering, but I couldn't help feeling that we had outstayed our welcome in the first quarter of an hour. I'm not sure why - perhaps it was the offhand comments about the virgin mary and jesus mugshots in front of the toilet, or the constant wanderings of assorted authors in front of the giant plasma screen that everyone else was trying to watch, or just the fact that we were all a little more pissed (or not so polite with it) than the other guests. Oprava (a friend of a friend of the host) has since insisted we were fine there, but I could have sworn I heard the host saying "I want to get rid of them but I'm not sure how," looking over at us as he said it.
But it's an interesting quandary. How do you get rid of such a literary infestation in a small suburban apartment? For the hosts, I suppose, the problem couldn't be ignored. There was about two thirds of a drunk author for each invited guest, so we didn't exactly overwhelm them, but we were very much there. Part of the solution could be found on the apartment's balcony, where I spent much of the latter part of the evening skewering my hand on the pigeon spikes. No one else seemed bothered by them so perhaps they only work on birds and this author but with with minimal adaptation I suspect they could be manufactured to ward against all manner of nasties, avian and belletristic.
My actions at the end of the evening have been described as close to chivalrous. Now there's a thing I haven't been called in a while.