I don’t have a problem attending events on my own. I go for dinner, to the theatre,  to the cinema, on holidays and of course to the book festival all by myself and just for myself. Sometimes it is lonely, but every time it provides the perfect opportunity to people watch.

“She’s got her trousers on back to front.”

“No, I think that’s how they are meant to be.”

“I hate them.”

 

“Now: what colour is your ear wax?”

“Well…I’d have to say golden.”

“Correct. That’s because you are European. If you were American it would be grey… and I think flaky.”

 

“….and then I am writing a book about my aunt….”

“…and I said to them something from Amsterdam? Well I would like a Renoir and a Van Gogh. Oh we did laugh, but really I’m not expecting anything…”

 

“Last year their afternoon tea was £6.50, this year it’s £13.00! They just fleece you during August. And I refuse to buy books from the festival because they won’t let me use my Waterstones card.”

“I can’t remember the name of that guy but fuck me; he is super intelligent! Like FUCK OFF intelligent.”

 

 

 

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