I had a first experience of the Silver
Cross last night; I see already that Sandra
didn't think much of it but I thought it was all right. I never liked
the Florence Nightingale, where the upstairs room was dark, filthy
and dingy, and looked as if it had had no money spent on it since the
dawn of time. We don't quite have a private room at the Silver Cross,
but we do have a bar, and better beer and food. The new pub is
somewhat noisier than the Dead Nurse, too, though they did turn off
the music downstairs.
The company was quite good, though it felt as if slightly fewer
people were there; I met Bill Burns (of the startlingly useful e-fanzines), who is staying at
Kittywompus while visiting London for a few days. John Richards
worked himself up into a high froth over The Scottish Convention
Mk II. I matched faces to the names of Colin Jack and Pete Young.
I drank slightly too much beer.
Rob Newman gave me a flyer for Dangercon 40, coming up in November
and with the most reasonable registration fee of £1. "Surely
there haven't been 39 previous Dangercons?" I asked. Though I do
wonder sometimes. Avedon despaired of the executive branch of the US
government again, and there was much discussion of the way in which
the West Wing acts as US civics education for the British. I also
talked shop with Annabelle, who works in the same organisation as me
and is also newly promoted. Owen Whiteoak helpfully gave me three
copies of the Fortean
Times, which turns out to be a startlingly entertaining magazine.
I was pretty squiffy by the time I got home, so no chance to read the
new IKEA catalogue. It's waiting
for me at home, tantalising; I'll curl up with it tonight. The IKEA
catalogue is beguiling for SF fans, promising a clutter-free life
without either throwing things away or tidying them up.
8:08:30 PM 
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