Well, I survived my afternoon and even sold a few books while not getting rained on, which surely counts as a result in a writer’s life these days. I didn’t even have to spend too much time pretending to write or practising my writer face as people were happy to come up and talk, even if most of the questions were along the lines of ‘where are the nearest toilets?’
Someone had the bright idea of starting a story which we were inviting people to add on to. It started ‘I opened the door of the beach hut, expecting the usual paraphernalia of deck chairs and beach equipment but instead I found…’ but quickly went off piste once the kids started adding their suggestions with brave Captain Crochet reviving a scary skeleton who reanimated as a mermaid who fortunately spoke fluent shark and was able to give directions to the Great White who had got lost on his way to visit his Grandma… (and if you’re wondering what happens next, you’ll just have to head to Kirkcudbright to find the writers’ hut and find out for yourself. Hopefully it won’t have gone too Fifty Shades of Grey by the end of the weekend.) Children might have no real sense of narrative continuity but you can’t fault their inventiveness.*
Meanwhile the long-suffering other half, who was acting as my chauffeur (we were half way there before it occurred to me that I could technically have just driven myself. I really should get behind the wheel occasionally), after attempting to fill a couple of hours in the Stewartry Museum, retired to the other deck chair to read his book.
He was revived by a visit to the fishmonger and some locally caught dressed crab, which we had for supper followed by excellent lamb steaks from Notso Bigtown butchers followed by wild raspberries gathered from along our road. Food miles don’t come much more delicious…
* with the exception of the little boy who said squashingly, ‘well, as stories usually have a happy ending I expect it all worked out in the end.’ Terrible to have developed the soul of a critic already in one so young.