On Friday something very unusual happened.
I went to work. This is not unusual; I would go so far as to say that barring school holidays this has happened pretty much every Friday for a while now. What did happen, though, was that a parcel arrived. This too is not entirely unusual – there is A Wedding coming up, which means that all manner of goods have been coming and going. We also live in a house with people who either a) have lots of friends that love them very much or b) run some kind of intergalactic mail-order smuggling empire*.
What was thoroughly and comprehensively unusual was that the parcel was for me.
As I wasn’t there to nod, grunt and sign, what I got was one of those lovely red ‘we considered ringing your doorbell but in the end we thought “…naah” so we went to have a cup of tea with our mate Kev’-type cards. So yesterday I went off to stand in line with a lot of people at the post collection depot, which is like a pot luck Argos**, shopping in hand. I get handed an envelope – no, two envelopes! – rubber-banded to keep all but the most ingenious of robbers out, and I note the little nifty logo on the address – JFB.
‘Hm,’ I think, vaguely remembering mewling at Publishing Assistant Extraordinaire Nicola Budd about wanting to guiltily score free copies of my co-authors and stablemates’ work. Could this be a Sarah Pinborough? Is the new Tom Pollock*** in proof stage yet?
I trundle on home and open the smaller envelope first. I see the contents, mutter ‘Well, I never” three times in Icelandic**** and proceed to open the second envelope.
Turns out what was in there was the first Snorri Kristjansson.
And having that on my table is really, really, really weird.
It has made me think. For a while now life has been pretty much nice and predictable in a pot-of-tea sort of way – get up in the morning, teach some stuff to kids, eat, not get hit by train or eaten by octopus, home, gambol and caper***** with the Lady, go to sleep and then do it again in the morning.
And now there’s this. An official thing. It even says ‘wife’ on it. And while this is an ARC, and it is not for sale and shan’t be for another x months – it still exists. It’s real. And I’ve still not dared to leaf through the pages. Life has changed.
And on that note, I think I’ll go do the paperwork I’ve promised myself (and others) that I’d do and crack on another load of laundry.
Swords of Good Men Snorri Kristjansson
* For smuggling mail orders. Mailception. Okay, so it’s not my finest work. It’s 10am on a Sunday; that’s the best you’re gonna get. Deal with it. And for the record, our neighbours are lovely.
** For the non-Brits, Bill Bailey explains. I realize that this might not make any sense, but it’s Bill Bailey.
*** The Current Tom Pollock is just fine. For clarification, I mean The Glass Republic. I’mma be all up in dat when the time comes.
**** “Það er nefnilega það.” pause. Adjust. “Það er nefnilega það.” Another pause. Head scratch. “Jahá. Það er nefnilega það.”
***** Mmm. Capers. I wonder if Gambols are as delicious.