Okay. This month has been out of control. I know London is supposed to be the city where you can do all this cultural stuff but I didn't think it would actually happen to me.
So, yeah, met Michael Ondaatje last night. Not this night, not halloween. It wasn't some literary little fart 12 year old dressing up as the Great Canadian Man of Letters and hitting me up for some toffee. It was last night, not halloween. Just a normal night and I and Fiona (curvaceous Italo-Australian work colleague with a broken nose - not recently broken, and not by me) went to a reading kind of thing were we sat around and watched Micheal Ondaatje chat with Walter Murch, the film editor. And afterwards we went upstairs and bought Mikey's new book and I got him to sign it and we had a brief chat and shook hands and become blood brothers after a fashion.
He's a really sweet man, by the way. He exudes twinkle. He reminded me of what I always imagined Santa Claus would be like. That is, if old Saint Nick decided to give up the crass consumerism of his current vocation and pick up the quill and ink. Anyway, cool guy. Liked him.
Padma, if you're reading this, tell him I say Hi when you're showing him your Booker in a couple of years.