I’ve just returned from taking part in the fantastic Scarborough Literary Festival as one of the Medieval Murderers. I was amazed at the brilliant organisation and the warm welcome that all the festival team gave to the authors. I was even met at the railway station and guided to the wonderful hotel where the staff could not have been more helpful or kind. Thank you so, so much to everyone at the Scarborough Festival and to the lovely audiences!

One of the reasons I felt like hugging and kissing everyone at Scarborough was that that book talks and festivals don’t always go as smoothly as that and whenever authors get together, they usually end up swapping horror stories of the times when everything goes wrong – in fact we could write a book about them! I’ve many strange book events myself with tents flooding or caretakers going on holiday taking the key to the venue with them, but one of memorable for me was when I nearly drowned in the middle of a town High Street before I’d even arrived at the venue.

The train had been packed thanks to earlier cancellations and I’d been standing squashed for hours. I was in need of the loo, but couldn’t get anywhere near the lavatory on the train, so I rushed to the ‘ladies’ at the station as soon as I got off, but it was closed. No taxis outside the station. No bus stop. No one from the event to meet me and according to only person I saw walking on the deserted main street of the town, the venue where I was giving my book talk was two miles away.

Then to my great relief I saw it, one of those automatic circular loos in the street, the sort which you have put money into and the doors fly open. I confess I’m always nervous about these, fearing that the door will open before I’m ready, but I was desperate by that stage. So put my money in the slot, the doors slid open and in I went clutching my suitcase.

The doors closed on cue, but to my alarm, water starting running down the walls to clean the whole unit, which is only supposed to happen after you’ve left. To make matters worse, it wasn’t draining away, because some prankster had blocked off the drainage holes outside so the whole sealed unit was gradually filling up with water. It was like being trapped in giant goldfish bowl when someone’s left the tap running.

Frantically I punched the unlock and open buttons – nothing happened. To escape the rising water I was forced to clamber on top of the lavatory clutching my suitcase. But even as I was yelling for help, it did cross my mind what a great murder plot this would be.
Thankfully, just as the water reached the top of the loo, the allotted time for cleaning must have elapsed because the doors suddenly slid open and the water cascade out.

More than a little damp, I plodded the two miles to the venue where the talk was to be held. It was clear the moment I walked in that the people setting up were grumpy – apparently it was the organiser’s day off. After hours on the train, I was hoping for a cup of coffee, but I pitched in helping to put out chairs and set up tables. Just before the talk started I tentatively asked if I could possibly have a glass of water. The staff member glowered at me. ‘Haven’t you brought your own? We don’t provide drinks.’

I glanced down at my sodden shoes and trousers, wondering if I should mention that I probably had brought more than glassful with me, but I didn’t.