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How not to sell paperbacks at artisan fairs, part 1
“Well,” as one wit in our cohort concluded, “that’s six hours of my life I’ll never get back again.”
Which reminded me of what we used to say in the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra: “Of all the concerts that I ever played, that was one of them.”
It was my very first attempt to sell paperbacks in person. And I’d chosen an artisan fair at Royal Tunbridge Wells, because my multi-award-winning paperbacks are Austen-inspired, of course.
And, without bragging, it’s not everyone who could have excelled as I did, and from the “off” as well, missing the Tunbridge Wells turning off the A21 due to singing along with Haydn on Radio 3, lol.
I fixed this little misstep and swanned into Tunbridge Wells but, despite being assured by my Satnav that I had “ree-eeched my destination,” could spot no hotel. I screeched my car to a halt alongside a young guy and his nine or ten-year-old, getting in their weekly father-and-son jog before the promised tempest arrived. “I wonder if you could help me?” I asked.
“No problem!” the jogger assured me.
“I’m looking for –” but could brain-of-Britain here remember the name of the hotel? — “a, um, largish hotel,” said I.
