Well, guys, my small attempt to set the record straight about book pricing seemed to go down pretty well. So last week, in the wake of that little success, I made a list of things in the book trade I’ve always wanted to blow my top about. Now I’m not longer actually part of the book trade, except as an enthusiastic customer, I think I’m allowed, and anyway it’s fun, and it keeps my blood pressure from boiling over. The plan was to choose one item from the list each week, and indulge in a little top-blowing.
But the best laid plans…
I will. I’ll do it. There are plenty of things on that list. But not today.
Today I’m thanking whatever deity is up there that I don’t have to go to work. Today I’m glad there’s a sparkly new laptop in my warm cosy house, and I’ve gleaned enough techno-wisdom so I don’t need my own elderly desktop to write this post.
Today, even though it’s only twenty yards away, I can’t get to my office.
It’s snowing.
December 1st and it’s snowing. And it’s been snowing on and off for four days. Mainly on for the past two, especially last night.
This morning there’s almost the deepest snow I ever remember in my life. The Vail Pass back in 199-something just about beat it, but only just about. This is not an exaggeration. I’ve lived in Derbyshire for thtymumble years. I know what deep snow looks like. If I knew how to do it, I’d download a picture from husband’s natty little digital camera and show you what it’s like. On the driveway outside our back door it’s already fourteen inches deep and still falling. The reason I can’t get to the office is my wellies (translation – rubber boots) are in the garage; I’d need to dig the snow away in front of the garage door in order to get into the garage; and the spades are – guess where? – in the garage.
(Memo to Dead Guy followers who live in bits of the USA – and I suppose the UK too – where fourteen inches is just a frosting: I really, really don’t want to spend the winter where you are. I read Lee Child’s 61 Hours a couple of weeks ago, and felt every shiver, every crunch along with Jack Reacher. I fell in love with South Dakota when I visited, but I do not like the cold.)
And still it comes down. With more, a lot more, threatened later today and tomorrow.
The world has come to a halt. It’s so quiet it’s spooky. If snowploughs and gritters are out there doing battle with it, the fight has yet to come within hearing distance of us. (A question: how does the guy who drives the snowplough get to work? This isn’t a riddle. I really can’t work it out.) Our street is a bus route, but not a single bus has gone past for nearly 24 hours, and who can blame them for cancelling? Hardly any cars either, so there’s one guy who deserves the biggest gold medal in the world and peace, happiness and all his desires met for the rest of his life. Mark, our intrepid milkman (an extinct breed across the ocean, but still alive and thriving in Derbyshire, England) has just delivered not only milk but also a large bag of potatoes, so comfort food will be on the menu tonight. I like pasta, but nothing beats a luscious hillock of mashed potato with my chicken casserole.
I like to think my posts usually deal with one aspect or another of the book trade as it relates to crime fiction, and I’ve fallen down on the job today. Better than falling down on the ice, maybe, but I apologise all the same. Normal service will be resumed… sometime. I hope.
