Before & Travel

Once, when I was in primary school, my friend found a bomb in her garden.

It was a great, rusted thing, buried way back by the fence, where her parents wanted a greenhouse. The police were called. The bomb squad came. My friend and her sister were evacuated to a neighbour’s house. . .and when the street was closed, to the park down the road. She could see the flashing lights from the swings and a policeman brought her ice cream.

Bombs! Police! Ice cream! It all sounded terribly exciting.  So I went home and dug for bombs. I didn't find one – my garden had a surprising lack of unexploded ordnances. Secretly, I was glad. Bombs go off after all.

So, back on track:

Before I left for Clarion, I dreamed about my bomb hunting. Repeatedly. Me, digging a damned great hole in the strawberry bed with a pneumatic drill. . .and finding one. And promptly freaking the frigging freak out, with much freakery and a side-serving of panic. At which point the bomb would go off.

I also dreamed I arrived at Clarion -- which was held in beach huts, in Lyme Regis -- only to be told I read the wrong sort of books. The beach huts were off limits, but I might be invited to some of the barbecues.

Yeah. I was slightly nervous about the whole Clarion thing.

I left London wondering if I'd made a dreadful, awful, terrible mistake I would regret for the rest of my life and ohgodwhereismypassporthaveIpackedmytoothbrushaaahhgh!

During the next six weeks, I kept something of a journal on wild scraps of paper. Half the time I forgot to date them, so if events are out of order, forgive me!

The first diary entry: