the fissure in the rock
Anyway, the Saturday came round and I started tipping back the rubicund relief and rescue, and then after a while began to regret not going along to what might be my only moment of literary glory. An hour later I somehow found myself on a train hurtling to the blighted North Midlands, but I fell asleep and missed my stop. I had to get off in the horrible orc-settlement of Sheffield. Really there were animal like howls going on outside the station, followed by unpleasant industrial-scale gurgles. I’ve no idea.
By the time I got back to Nottingham I thought I’d missed the awards altogether, but I finally stumbled in to the ghastly low-rent venue hosting the “festivities” to find a banqueting room packed with odd-looking types. Who should be on the stage posturing and pontificating into a microphone but my Creative Writing tutor. He seemed to be in the middle of some acceptance speech but it was certainly not the words I had penned for him. I felt dizzy and disoriented. I almost had the impression he was claiming the award for himself. I asked someone what was going on, only to be shushed by a female the size of grain-silo.
A few moments later and to my utter astonishment he was then invited to join the award winners as they gurned and struck attitudes for the melee of assembled photographers, cameras flashing and whirring. I began to feel most unwell. Later I approached him to find out what the hell was going on, but he saw me coming and marched off to the bar surrounded by an ugly posse of lithe young men and one or two rather unsavoury looking women. Someone pointed at me and made an obscure remark. I staggered out of the hotel with the sound of oafish laughter ringing in my ears. I felt so disoriented I hurried back to the train station and caught the first available train south. I’m going to have to get to the bottom of this, but I never want to have to go to a British Fantasy Convention again.