Bouchercon - The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

I have been so bad. I had great intentions of posting reams of stuff about panels every day, and instead, I have been having too good a time. So, here's a quick summary, plus one panel write up. More of those to follow...at some point.

The Good: Being at the Shamus awards while my friend Reed Farrel Coleman won the Shamus award for the amazing EMPTY EVER AFTER.

The Good: Getting back to my room yesterday to discover that the lovely Nicholas Towasser of Dissident Books (publishers of the wonderful DON'T CALL ME A CROOK by Bob Moore) had sent me a gift - a biography of The Stooges - signed "Hey Donna - Iggy Pop". Iggy Pop signed a book to ME! Do I, or do I not, have the loveliest friends?

The Bad - I lost at poker last night. Although, on The Good side, it was a very small loss and I had great fun doing it. I shall see if I can do better tonight.

The Ugly - The blisters on my feet after Christa Faust, Martyn Waites and I walked 40 blocks - including about 10 blocks where we saw no-one but cop cars (running, but empty, strangely enough), under a scary freeway underpass where we could probably have scored every drug known to man. And I had to do it in these shoes.

On The Good side of that one - we stopped off for tapas and margaritas on the way, we ended up at a great bar for the Black Mask party, and we got to ride home in a 1938 Cadillac.

As you can see, there's always a good for every bad. And far outweighing any minor badness, is the opportunity to spend time with some of the nicest people in the world, hugging old friends and meeting new ones.

And now, a panel report.

SUDDENLY I'M THIRSTY

The panellists were Con Lehane (moderator), Chris Knopf, J A Konrath, Jason Pinter and Tom Schreck. Keeping to the theme of good and bad, four of the panellists were excellent. One was so awful I nearly walked out twice (speaking to people after the panel, it appeared I wasn't the only one.)

The first question to the panellists was what effect did drink or sobriety have on their protagonists and how it affected their books. Joe Konrath was the first to answer and the first words out of his mouth were "I'm not going to answer any of that." And then he launched into what was, effectively, a prepared stand up routine about his hotel and a jacuzzi. It wasn't funny, but, more to the point, I thought it was very rude and disrespectful to the moderator and the other panellists. It made me mad. However, people in the audience were laughing so I guess some people found it funny (although the biggest laugh came for Con Lehane when he said something to try and shut Konrath up).

Chris Knopf (whose books I definitely want to read, based on the panel, so I bought one. His answer to this question was really interesting However, I can't tell you what it was, because all I wrote down was "interesting response". Silly cow.

Tom Schreck said that his character Duffy Dumbrowski loves to drink. By day he's a drug and alcohol counsellor, by night, he drinks. Schreck said that he did not want a down and out cliched drunk as a protag, he wanted a happy drunk.

Jason Pinter wanted to make his character a bit contrary and not the divorced, older PI with baggage so he made him young. When Henry drinks, there is a reason for it and the lower he gets the more he drinks.

The panel were then asked how they get scenes across where their protagonist is getting more and more drunk and Chris Knopf said that he sends him to bed. Jason Pinter makes sure his character stays away from electronic equipment.

Tom Schreck says that when he is drunk he sometimes has very profound thoughts - however, when he tries to write when he's been drinking, when he sobers up he realises it's "total shit".

Con Lehane referenced a quote from Ernest Hemingway that you should make yourself a promise that you will always do what you say you will do while drunk because that keeps you a bit sober. One of the panellists quipped that he obviously hadn't lived by his own rule.

The panellists were then asked about the use of humour and all the panellists felt that there was room for some humour in with the drunkenness. Tom Schreck uses a neighbourhood bar in his books and commented that the dialogue in his books is sometimes verbatim from the conversation in the bar he himself frequents on a Friday night. Schreck had been an addictions counsellor for 25 years and he said that being drunk all the time is a tragedy, but that doesn't mean that there's anything wrong with occasionally getting a bit merry.

The next question was a really interesting one - whether it seemed to be more acceptable for a male character to get drunk rather than a female. I was looking forward to the answer but unfortunately, the panel was hijacked again. Joe Konrath said he was more interested in sex, and after telling some story about writing sex scenes, started to read the four page scene he was talking about. Luckily, Tom Schreck stopped him.

Chris Knopf did say that when he was writing his second series - with a female protagonist - he decided he didn't want to make her a hardened drinker (and be typecast as that sort of writer) so he made her take drugs instead.

The panellists were asked if they ever felt they were stepping outside any boundaries. Joe Konrath said that morals are dictated by society at any given time. Jason Pinter said that he had got letters from reader who were quite happy to read about all the murder and mayhem but that he would get told off for having characters who drank, smoked, or hurt animals.

Con Lehane talked about a big debate on the mystery discussion group DorothyL where it was clear that the idea of glorifying drinking really bothers people. He noted that there is a tradition going back to Chandler and Hammett. At that time it wasn't seen as a bad thing (the panellists mentioned Nick and Nora Charles, who always had a cocktail in their hands) and Tom Schreck said that alcoholism was declared and official disease by the American Medical Association in 1957, and by the World Health Organisation in 1958. Chris Knopf said that he does not endorse drinking as being good, and expects his readers to see the moral underpinning. Schreck is of the opinion that it's a great vehicle to tap into the emotions of your protagonist and noted that a lot of men in particular have emotions that they never get to because they use alcohol.

An excellent panel. Apart from the obvious.

Just To Prove I'm Still Alive...

Here in Indianapolis and a fuller post will follow, but I know my Mum will be fretting so this is just a quickie.

I got to my hotel yesterday to discover that it was in the middle of a shopping mall - the only thing which could have been better is if it was in the middle of a shoe store. So, since there will be a lack of proper post until later, here are some facts and figures...


Panels Attended - 2

Pairs of shoes putchased - 9

Books purchased - 17

Friends hugged - loads, and yet not enough. Here's the only picture I have so far - this is Gary and the Teds (not Big Ted and Little Ted, for those who remember playschool). More pictures in a later post - I will try and remember my camera next time.

A Fictional Interlude - Marrying Cosy and Noir

This is a pre-scheduled post as I am travelling to Bouchercon today - Bobbie and I are doing a Thelma and Louise road trip.

On one of the lists I'm on (the wonderful 4_Mystery_Addicts), we once discussed whether there were any books which united both ends of the cosy-noir spectrum, and, I believe we concluded that there actually weren’t. So, I had a stab at marrying Cozy and Noir (although actually it's more of a very short engagement where the parties split due to irreconcilable differences). But here it is for what it’s worth.

WHEN COSY MET NOIR

The name’s Fluffykins. And don’t even think about smirking. The last one to laugh at my name was a mangy tomcat from Yonkers who’s now meowing soprano on Broadway in the chorus of Cats. Just because I travel around in my owner’s oversized handbag and wear a little bow in my topknot, it don’t make me a pussy, ya know. I have a good life – my human buys me all the choicest cuts of meat, the finest salmon. You know that saying ‘The cat who got the cream’? Well, that’s me. Every day - breakfast, lunch and dinner. If I have to put up with a little bit of tartan ribbon, well… so be it.

So, life was good, but me and the human were feeling a little bored. I was spending most of my day sleeping, she was spending most of hers knitting. I could feel all the inactivity was having a detrimental effect on my normally sleek and lithe figure. I was getting a little stodgy round my midsection, and the birds outside on the window sill were safe from me, unless someone were to hand me a Glock. Come on sparrows, make my day.

Anyway, yesterday the human sighed, put down the lifesize model of the Statue of Liberty she was knitting and said "Fluffykins, we need a bit of excitement in our lives. The only thing we have to look forward to this week is a Bridge party at Lady Dalrymple’s and seeing how long it
takes the Vicar to cheat."

I opened one eye and rolled over for my stomach to be rubbed. I don’t do that for everyone you know. What - you think I expose my tender bits to all and sundry just because they happen to visit and say "Awwww, what a sweet little thing"? Just because I’m a cat doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Would you do that? Would you roll over on your back and let a complete stranger within inches of your crown jewels? No, I thought not. So don’t expect me to, OK? Jeez.

So, anyway, here we were, in front of the glass panelled door which spelled out in peeling black letters ‘Dick Blade – Private Investigator’. The human knocked gently and a gravelly voice called out "Yeah? It’s open. Come in, but don’t make any sudden moves. I’ve got a roscoe trained on you. One false move and I’ll fill you so full of holes you could double as a teabag." I purred in delight. I had reached my spiritual home.

The human opened the door. Behind the desk sat a man who was looking very much the worse for wear. A battered fedora sat on his head, resting jauntily on a bandage over his left eye. He was unshaven and grey looking. His eyes were screwed up against the cigarette smoke that hung over the room like a blanket. As he took a huge swig out of a half empty bottle of whisky, my human tutted, plonked her handbag with me in it on the chair and moved over to the window which she opened wide.

"Hey! Whaddaya think you’re doin’ lady? I gotta cold. I’ll catch my death, you open that window." He coughed feebly, just to underline his protest.

"And you think whisky and cigarettes are going to help? What you need, dear, is a nice hot camomile tea with some lemon and honey. And here," she lifted me out of her capacious handbag and rummaged about, "Look, here’s a warm scarf I knitted for Colonel Arbuthnot. You can have it."

As she wound the scarf around the PI’s neck, I smacked my forehead with my paw. My hero with the battered fedora and dirty trenchcoat, now had a baby blue woollen scarf with lemon fringe around his neck. And damn me, if he wasn’t fingering the soft wool with joy.

He tried to pull himself together. "So, lady, what can I do for you?"

"My name’s Agatha Parple. I’ve come about your advert in the newspaper."

"Yeah? Which one? ‘Dick Blade’s the name, Detecting’s the game. Your old man skipped out leaving you holding the baby? Blade will track him down like a dog.’ That advert?"

"No, not that one."

"OK. What about ‘Need a Bodyguard? Call Blade.’ Short and sweet that one."

"No, not that one either."

"No? OK. It must be ‘Need muscle? Blade’s got more muscle than a gym full of steroids’. Hell lady, what do you want with muscle? Can’t get the lid off a jar of raspberry jam?"
"No dear, none of those. It’s this one, from the Daily News - ‘Wanted - partner for PI. Ability to shoot straight, drink like a fish and stay awake for days on end essential. Must have own trenchcoat.'"

"Lady, you gotta be kidding."

My sentiments exactly. What was the human thinking of? Where was the mention of the intelligent crime solving cat in all this? I meowed piteously.

"Listen buster", said my human, ripping the ribbon out of my hair and ruffling my fur. "Can the prejudices and don’t be a sucker, or I’ll kick you in the keister. I’m a good triggerman and know how to recognise a flimflamm when I see one. Now, pass me over some of that giggle juice and let’s yap." She sat down, put her little button-booted feet up on the desk, and whipped out a packet of Capstan Extra Strength.

Blade looked at her admiringly. "I think you and I are gonna get along just fine, Doll. Now, what was it you said about a nice cup of camomile tea?"

Look At The Size of My Onions!

This is a picture of my lovely friends Bobbie and Larry with their dog Buddy, who's a little sweetheart.

We have been having a marvellous time. The first night we had a bonfire and cooked hotdogs and s'mores (which I had never had before). I now know why they are called s'mores, because every time I touched my face I said "I don't believe it, I have s'more marshamallow up my nose."

Bobbie, like me, is a big crime fiction reader. She has a lovely reading room (jealous, moi???). Here she is reading an Ian Rankin book (see, I knew I could bring this post kicking and screaming back on topic). The book shaped table next to her was made by Larry. Larry is both a lovely man and a genius. He can make anything, and he does. And, if he doesn't have a tool to make something then he makes the tool - out of anything he has lying around. He makes the most gorgeous cabinets and woodwork stuff and has made a couple of those glider chairs which are beautiful pieces of work.

This is him in his metalwork room (he also has a woodwork room - jealous, moi? OK - not so much as the reading room, but...) I swear that every time I say "Oooooh, that's so lovely", it has been made by Larry.

On Monday he made a rocket for going to Jupiter while Bobbie and I sat round and drank wine and ate chocolate.

Yesterday, we went to the supermarket. Now, this may not seem like a big deal to most people, but I love going to supermarkets over here. We don't have 6 mile long aisles of soft drinks in the UK. "Oh look here's guava and barbecue pork flavour orange and liquorice juice - I think I'll have some of that." And my, but isn't everything so much bigger in America? Look at the size of these onions, can you believe it? After we had taken this photo, giggling like a pair of six year olds, a lady doing her shopping came up to us and said "I can't believe you ladies just did that."

The countryside is so beautiful round here and the leaves are just starting to turn. We went to a lovely park in town and had a wander round so that I could take 17000 photographs of trees. Like this one. We also wandered through a cemetary. Which was...weird. I don't think this happens in the UK but there were gravestones for people who hadn't even died yet. Not one where someone is buried and there's also the name and date of birth of their spouse, with a space for the date of death (presumably as some sort of warning that he had better not get remarried to some blonde floozy half his age).

No. These were huge stones, with a picture of the happy couple, a carving of a rearing horse, an engraving of two intertwined gold rings with the date of their marriage, and their names and dates of birth. Neither of them were dead. That's like saying to your friends and family "Hank and I really don't think you lot will spend enough money on providing us with something ostentatious enough when we die, so we've done it ourselves. Hope you're not offended. Oh, and by the way, we're spending next Christmas at the grave site so that you can all admire it." Meanwhile, Hank's talking to his best mate and saying "Hey, Bill, there's an empty plot by Thelma and me - can you make sure that my mistress gets buried in it." And what if Hank and Thelma get gored to death by a wild horse? How are their relatives going to feel when they get reminded of the carnage every time they see the gravestone?

But, that was not the weirdest thing. Oh no. There was this enormous grave (about the size of 3 normal graves). A big stone in the middle and then a lifesize stone deer at either side. As we drove past, Bobbie spotted this white thing that looked as though it was underneath one of the deer. "What on earth is that?" "I have no idea," I said, "maybe it's a bag of deer guts?" So we had to get out and look. It was a penguin. A huge white plastic penguin that was looking down at a baby penguin between its feet. Unfortunately, the angle of the penguin's head, and the fancy metal bow tied around its neck, made it look as though it was the victim of a hanging. And since when did Bambi have a wee pal who was a penguin? Especially an albino one.

I'm sorry but if anyone does anything like that when I die I swear I am going to come back and haunt them. And talking of haunting - people have really gone to town on the decorating their houses for Halloween. Either that, or this is the home of the Addams Family.

Last night, I dreamed that I had built myself an enormous grave in someone's back garden, complete with fairground carousel and a car. Bobbie, on the other hand, dreamed I crept into her bedroom while they were asleep and took all her clothes and started wearing them. I do believe that is dream code for "I hate you, get out of my house."

Tales From The 62 Bus - Number 4 - The Tooth, The Whole Tooth and Nothing But The Tooth

Since I am currently away on holiday enjoying myself, here's another tale from the 62 bus.

It was a lovely sunny Saturday afternoon, so I decided to go into the city centre to buy a new pair of sandals. Yes, I know - the World Shoe Mountain currently resides in my spare bedroom, but, well, you never can tell when that rumoured Slingback Shortage is going to occur, so, abiding by that old Girl Guide motto 'Be Prepared', off I trotted. (For the purposes of this tale, it's actually irrelevant that I was thrown out of the Girl Guides due to my reliance on my own personal motto 'Be a Pain in The Arse'.)

So there I was, sitting on the bus, gazing out of the window and listening to my ipod (The Clash if anyone cares). About half way into town, I noticed someone sitting down next to me. When I say 'I noticed' what I actually mean was 'I couldn't help noticing because he sat on my knee and breathed stale beer fumes all over me'. Oh good, that most annoying of Bus Pests, the Glasgow drunk. He apologised profusely. I mostly couldn't hear what he was saying due to the music so I I just smiled and turned away. Then he spoke to me again and I just nodded and smiled and looked out the window. So he tapped me on the shoulder and spoke again. I pointedly took out the earpiece from the ear on the Bus Pest side and said "Sorry?"

"Oh! Are ye listening tae music hen?"

"Yes."

"Whit are ye listening tae?"

"Just a mixture." (My patented method of getting rid of The Bus Pest is be brief, be polite, don't give them too much information, they'll only ask more questions).

"Is it some of that meatrocker music?" (OK, so my patented method needs a little work). "Ah'm an Elvis man maself. Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra... Ah'm no much o' a singer mind." I breathed a sigh of relief - thankful for small mercies - at least I wasn't going to be treated to a rendition of My Way. "Although, I dae a pretty guid Ma Way, if I dae say so maself." I cast about feverishly for a hole of swallow-me-up size, but luckily he decided not to sing.

In one way, I would have loved to have seen him sing. He had apparently recently been to the false Teeth Shop but was obviously in a hurry on teeth shopping day. I knew this because a) he had the most perfect set of top teeth (apart from the fact that they moved independently from his gums) and b) he had 2 yellow bottom teeth (and I don't mean he had two yellow bottom teeth in an otherwise perfect set. I mean he had only 2 bottom teeth, and they were bright yellow). Watching him speak was like watching a badly dubbed Hungarian film. When he finished speaking, his top teeth were still in motion - moving away from his gums, out over his bottom lip and, on a couple of really scary occasions they were sucked back into his mouth and disappeared towards his throat. I was mentally practising the Heimlich manouevre.

Instead he held out his hand "Ah'm Big Chick. Pleased tae meet ya hen. And you are?...."

"Donna", I said quietly.

"Did yez hear that?" he announced to the rest of the bus "The lassie's called Donna. Whit time is it Donna?"

"Ten past one."

"Ten past wan? Ten past wan in the MORNIN'?"

"Errrr.....no, afternoon" What, did he think Glasgow had sneakily moved locations while he was down the pub and was now situated in the land of the midnight sun? At that point, a woman got on the bus and he said to her "Dae ye want ma seat pal?" She shook her head and moved on, despite the pleading look I gave her. Big Chick leaned over to me and whispered (and, when I say 'whispered' what I actually mean is 'boomed loudly') "She's just jealous 'cos ah'm sittin' with you instaed o' her." Yes, I should imagine the whole bus was positively emerald green with jealousy at my good fortune by now. At least, those who weren't sniggering with glee at my predicament and increasingly red face.

"Where are ye fae' Donna?"

"Here. I live here."

Again, the annoucement of this titillating piece of information to the rest of the bus "Did yez all hear? Donna lives in Glasgae."

Someone up the back of the bus laughed. My Bus Pest turned round, taking his jacket off "Hey youse up the back - haud yer wheesht. Dae yis want tae fight me?" Luckily no one took him up on this. I say luckily because he then turned back to me and said "Ah'm a bouncer." Oh. Really. Since 'Big' Chick was less than 4 feet 6 inches tall and more than 104 years old, I found this a tad difficult to believe.

"Ah'm gettin' aff at the Sandyford." I breathed a sigh of relief. The Sandyford was a pub a couple of stops further up. "Are ye coming in? Ah'll see you right." I didn't know whether he meant for a drink, a fight or a lumber*, but frankly, I didn't want to ask.

"Errr, no, thanks all the same but I have to go into town."

"Okay hen, well you come in and see me on Monday. I'll be in the Sandyford fae' aboot 10 in the morning. It's a great wee boozer. It opens at 8am, so if ye get up and ye feel like a wee drink, ye can just stoat along."

Great. Hold me back.

Big Chick heaved himself out of the seat and walked to the front of the bus, turning round at the front to give me a last beery wave "Bye Donna hen. Ah'll have a wee pie and a pint waitin' fer ye on Monday mornin'."

Mmmmmm, can't wait.

Let's Get Those Melon Farmers...

I'm sitting here at St Louis Airport (only 36 hours after I set off - woohoo!) writing this post and watching the transport police ride around on these lovely little wheel-y things (Segways?) and desperately wanting to throw myself in front of one so that I can get a go on it. I might as well do something useful instead of planning what is no doubt a criminal activity, so here are some links.

Just a reminder about the UNICEF Crime Night at Glasgow's Hillhead Library on October 16th with Karen Campbell, Helen Fitzgerald, Caro Ramsay and Alex Gray. For more information contact Hillhead Library or e-mail glasgowunicef@googlemail.com.

Funghi-phobe Russel McLean on place in crime fiction over at the always excellent Do Some Damage.

Fancy joining Alexander McCall Smith at the Daily Mail Literary Lunch? And more on the premiere of his opera.

Stuart MacBride goes to jail.

The Warwick Words Literary Festival. And a report from the Inverness Book Festival.
Plus Ian Rankin and Denise Mina at the International Festival of Authors in Toronto.

Conan Doyle given stamp of approval.

The Hereford Times on Kate Atkinson.

&*%$ me, if swearing doesn't rear its naughty little head again. And, talking of swearing, here's more news of the TRAINSPOTTING prequel.

Apparently, I Am Distressed

Morning...

Well, here I am sitting at Schipol Airport in Amsterdam (which does seem a very odd way to go to America since I’ve just gone several hundred miles east, while aiming to go several thousand miles west. I said goodbye to my luggage in Glasgow. Who knows when I will see it again. All being well I will say a brief hello to it in Detroit, only for it to disappear en route to St Louis. Luckily, since my luggage goes missing at least 66% of the time, I am prepared. I have spare knickers in my carry on.

It was an inauspicious start to my trip to America – a)I forgot to take a book and b) the plane to Amsterdam smelled of sick. Luckily, to mitigate a) I have my Sony e-Reader on which I have about 200 books, so I knew I wasn’t going to run out of reading matter. However, there’s always that niggling doubt that they will have changed the rules on planes and no electronic equipment will be allowed, so I nipped into the airport bookshop and, luckily they had a book that I’ve been meaning to get for ages. Gordon Brown’s FALLING. (No, not that Gordon Brown, and it’s not about the state of the UK economy). To mitigate b) well, sadly there was nothing. The hour or so flight to Amsterdam was marred by the smell of vomit.

Schipol airport in Amsterdam is the size New York. My arrival gate from Glasgow and my departure gate for Detriot were about as far apart as it’s possible to get. Walking from one to the other is like taking a stroll from the Empire State Building to ooooooh, Newark, New Jersey. When I got to my gate, of course, there was a little sign up saying “Haha suckers, your gate has been changed. Please go to Gate E9.” It was then that I found myself in a strange Kafkaesque nightmare. I arrived at Gate E9 to be confronted by a screen saying “This gate has been changed. Please proceed to Gate E24.” “Gate E24?” I thought to myself, “That number seems strangely familiar.” Yes, indeed, it was the gate I had first been to. I passed the same confused looking people six times as we all meandered, with increasing perplexity, between Gate E9 and Gate E24.

I’ll tell you how far I walked between gates – I had to stop and go for a wee twice (not just in the middle of the concourse, I hasten to add. I made sure to go to the designated restrooms. Here, I was able to observe a phenomenon that has puzzled me since the advent of toilets that flush automatically. This type of toilet seems to spot me coming. No matter how carefully and slowly I open the cubicle door, the toilet flushes once on my entry into the cubicle. It then flushes a second time as I am hanging my handbag up on the cubicle door, a third time as I am...ahem...preparing myself. Then it flushes once more while I am...sorry to be indelicate...tinkling. After I’m done and stand up – ie, the time when it should flush, it doesn’t. I wave at it, point my bum at it, bob up and down a few times, still no flush. I give up, take my handbag off the back of the door and the toilet flushes. It flushes again when I open the cubicle door and then it gives me an enthusiastic farewell flush as I leave the cubicle.

The automatic taps on the sink are a whole other issue. They seem to think I am one of the undead. They never come on. No matter how much I wave in front of the little sensor. I could climb into the sink and start doing the hokey cokey and they would still remain obstinately dry.

So, here I am sitting waiting for the flight. I’ve been through the second round of security at Schipol. Now, they’re not too shabby on the security front at Glasgow airport, but here they’re fiendish. As usual, I beeped. I’m sure the woman who frisked me could now make a pretty good guess at my cup size. Honestly, I’ve been on first dates where I’ve been touched up less. (Dad – I’m sure you are reading this so I just wanted to say that I have never been touched up on a first date. In fact, I’ve never been touched up at all).

Later that same day...

By now, I am supposed to be in Illinois. Only I'm not. In a strange reversal of fortune my bags have gone on to St Louis. I, on the other hand am stuck in Detroit, in the hotel out of The Shining. The plane was late so I missed my connecting flight. I thought there was still a chance to catch it, as I have never been through customs and immigration so quickly - and that was despite having some more unusual questions thrown at me by the immigration official. Along with the usual 'where are you going?', 'how long will you be here?', 'whay are you here?' and 'who was the seventh president of the United States?' this time I also got 'what's wrong with your leg?' I wondered if this was a trick question and spent five minutes agonising over what to say. Could he see the scar where I fractured my knee when I was 13 even through the material of my trousers? If so, these are not immigration officials, they are superheroes. Should I say 'nothing' or should I make something up? Which one would get me deported?

In the end, I opted for the truth. "Nothing." I said.

"Then why do you have crutches?" he said.

Ah - now I had it. This was some sort of conversation where I had to respond with the secret code. Unfortunately, no-one had told me what the secret code was. I leaned towards him and tried a likely candidate "Errrrrr...the daffodils are blooming early in Prague, this year."

"Ma'am, do you have a mental illness?"

It turned out that he had thought my wheel-y carry on luggage was crutches. I wish I'd known that before I mentioned the daffodils.

Anyway, by the time we had got that little misunderstanding sorted out, and I had waited at the luggage carousel watching everyone else's luggage come off, the last flight to St Louis had gone, so the lovely people at Delta Airlines gave me a hotel voucher and vouchers for dinner and breakfast (what sort of breakfast am I going to get for $3 by the way?) and packed me off to a man waiting to take me to my home for the night.

"Are you a distressed passenger? he said.

"Well, not really. I'm a little bit miffed, but I wouldn't say I was distressed."

"No ma'am, that's what they call passengers who've missed their flights and need to stay overnight."

Oh. I see.

I seem to have written a whole lot about nothing at all. Sorry about that. Signing out for now, completely un-distressed but very sleepy.