Blackwells, Edinburgh South - crime scene
Blackwells Bookshop, Edinburgh last Saturday.
Caron is asking about the autobiography of Albert Pierrepoint (the last British hangman - and really don't ask me why she wants that... that's not light late night reading is it? maybe it is...) and when she finishes I chime in with a request of my own.
'Oh and have you got Life death something by someone... Simon? no Stephen something er May yes Stephen May.'
The young assistant is keen to be helpful. He consults the screen.
'It's not out yet.' he says, sad that he's unable to help the customer.
'Will you be getting any copies at all?' There is a nailbiting moment while he turns back to the screen and then, oh joy, 'Yes! we've ordered ten copies...'
Needy? Insecure? Me?
I was certain he was going to rumble me, to say 'come on it's you, isn't it? It's your book... You sad, sad man.' And if I then denied it he might make me produce ID. Or he might just pause a moment and say 'and yes, we've got flyfishing by JR Hartley too...'
Someone once said writers are megalomaniacs with low self-esteem. This is the same definition used for alcoholics by the way.
And I fear I may be doomed to prove them right. Over and over again. But I'll try harder to hide it I think...