Tom called in to pass a Christopher Brookmayre on to me. Tom enjoys CB. The opening words to this one are "Jesus fuck" and it's all downhill from there. A whole chapter is spent describing a crime scene covered liberally with puke and a keek that 'it must have been a wrench for some proud father to leave behind.' All in heavy graphic Glaswegian. I'm not sure I have a strong enough stomach. Tom had also been listening to a program about the Edinburgh Book Fair on the radio, about who and what will be there. I don't think I got a mention. (!) All I can hope is that there are some nice folk who enjoy looking at the books worth tens of thousands of pounds, but are really happy to find me up a dark corner selling something they can actually afford.
The forecasted wind is finally reaching us. I had to help a very little old lady up the road. She had less weight than our Christmas turkey and was scared to let go of the railings. I would have been too in her position, happily I have more ballast. The Red Cross manageress broke her hip during one storm a few years back because she was thrown onto the ground by a gust of wind and hit a rock.
Thinking about turkeys (my mind is doing the butterfly tango today) I shall enjoy hearing more about Jane's turkeys whilst we are waiting for custom at the fair. Whereas the rest of us who had ordered our Christmas dinner from her flock of 30 hand-reared-from-the-egg, organic, free range beasts wolfed them down enthusiastically, Bryn and Marilyn paid for two but told Jane to keep them alive and offered to pay for grain for them. So Jane now has two large feathered pets, one of which likes to warm its wings by the wood-burning stove, to the disgust of Jane's cat.
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