The Archer.


My day was going extremely well until I saw Jeffrey Archer.

I’d had a productive morning, putting the finishing touches to redecorating my bathroom. I’d rehung a few pictures, taken out my recycling and cleaned the food bin, which had frightening furry pink mould growing on the inside. I left my flat and skipped into town, content in the knowledge of a lot of jobs well done. Then I turned a corner to see the notorious ex-polititian, -lag and novelist, and my spirits fell. The day had been irreversibly tarnished.

What makes it worse was I knew he was in town for a book signing and had forgotten about it. Every day for the past few weeks, I’ve walked past the posters in the window of my favourite bookshop, promoting his forthcoming visit. They said he'd be autographing copies of his latest novel ‘Be Careful What You Wish For’, which sounded like a thinly-veiled threat. Despite plenty of advance warning, I walked straight into the lion’s den. I must be a glutton for punishment.

Even if I had remembered, it wouldn’t have made much difference. I would still have headed into town the same way. I didn’t expect him to be signing books outside the shop; I thought I'd be protected by at least twelve inches of brickwork.

This wasn’t my first run-in with the infamous author. I once went for afternoon tea at the Orchard Tea Rooms in Grantchester, right next to the Archers’ house (the Old Vicarage of Rupert Brooke's poem). They were having a garden party, with a live band – and we were treated to an impromptu Beatles medley, sung by the Archers themselves, as we tucked into our cream teas. I’ve not listened to Ticket to Ride in the same way since.

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