Truth is Stranger than Fiction... or is it?

 

Thirty minutes late and full of excuses, I arrived at the abode of fellow author Hilary Mantelpiece. I tried to hide my guilt under a cloak of invisibility but she saw right through it.

"You're late... KJ." She was obviously not amused. "I have a very large rucksack and I'm not afraid to use it!"

Maybe I should have worn my spectacles when reading the note the owl had brought me earlier that morning - on which were written the instructions for meeting our new writing friend, Agony Christie. Luckily, if Ms Christie was dismayed by our tardiness, when we eventually arrived at our meeting place, she hid it well.

"I've booked first class," she said, indicating for us to follow her into the carriage of the train. "What do you think?"

"It looks like the sort of place where one might hear a cry emanating from one of the carriage compartments in the dead of night."

"You have such a vivid imagination, Ms Rolling Pin," scoffed Ms Mantelpiece. "And don't even think of bringing up the assassination attempt when we went to the Woman's Weekly Fiction Workshop... you know no one believes you."

The tea we drank was divine, straight from the orient and it went well with the Dangelberries I had conjured up with a flick of the wand I'd borrowed from a young wizard. We talked of commas and campervans and absent writerly friends and when Agony's husband, David Bayleaf, sometimes known as Agent G, arrived with his camera, we were thrilled.

"Make us look beautiful," I cried.

His look was scornful.

 

"I only do boats,"  he said.

 

The truth is stranger than fiction.... or is it? If you like your fiction to be well-rounded, you might like to read my friends' accounts here and here for the whole story.