April is London Book Fair time, so first thing Monday morning off I packed my blue badge and appointments list and went to catch my train, thanking heaven fasting (well, OK, breakfasting) that I didn’t have to get there by plane.
In fact I got there in record time and with minimal hassle, if you don’t count slaloming around the concourse-long queue at the Eurostar booking office in St Pancras railway station. But whoever’s up there deciding these things was clearly having a good laugh at the book trade’s expense.
Exhibitors were hanging around huge, expensive stands looking bored and slightly distraught. Someone mentioned a stand which had cost the company several thousand pounds, only to find that all but one of their meetings over the fair’s three days had been cancelled. In the course of the day no fewer than seven people told me a hundred and sixty stands were empty. One was right opposite my meeting place of choice for people who didn’t have stands of their own, which was not without its convenient side for me and quite a few other people, but in general, not good news at all.
The small proportion of overseas visitors who had circumvented the dust cloud, mainly by flying into London before the volcano erupted, wore slightly anxious expressions: they’d got there – but how were they going to get home?
I was luckier than many. All but one of my meetings were with people based in the UK, and though trains and motorways were much busier than usual, at least they continued to get people where they wanted to go; so the only person I missed out on was Crème de la Crime’s American distributor, who was grounded somewhere a few hundred miles from the eastern seaboard. A great pity, because LBF is the only chance I get to meet him face to face, and the personal touch is important to me; but hey, what’s e-mail for if not for staying in contact?
The International Rights Centre, usually buzzing with energy and the place where high-octane worldwide deals are cut and authors’ futures decided, felt like the Marie Celeste after the Daleks invaded. Swathes of tables lay empty. Usually bright-eyed young women slumped in their chairs. Everyone I deal with in the book trade is charming and friendly, but the welcome I received when I arrived for my three o’clock was out of all proportion to the amount of business I’m likely to bring them; they just hadn’t seen anyone all day.
The fair continues, albeit in a subdued and half-speed fashion, until close of play today. If the newsletters which bombard my e-mail in-box can be believed, certain events have drawn an even bigger than usual crowd, but the underlying atmosphere has to be frustration and disappointment.
And all because of a volcano in Iceland. An act of God, politicians and airline executives are calling it.
Well, if God had anything to do with it, there was probably a reason. Maybe s/he was telling us it was time to stop rushing around the world using up resources?
