Shy!

Dorchester, our County town, had its Christmas Cracker Night with hospitality, Carol Singers and stalls. It was so wet that by the time my partner and I got half way down the first road to be cordoned off we were soaked. Stall holders dashed out from under the awnings to thrust plastic cups of mulled wine or freshly baked mince pies into our hands, then dashed back. A choir stood outside St Peters and battled valiantly against the cacophony of rain falling, tumbling and gurgling; the latter down drains. All we needed was a mob of disgruntled villagers a few flashes of lightning and a monster to chase!

We wandered, trying to smile through the cold and rain, determined to enjoy the late night shopping, good cheer and start to a festive period that, without our Mo, would be difficult enough. It happened a couple of times when we turned to each other in a shop or next to a stall and said "she would've loved that". This will be a constant throughout the festive period, because she loved Christmas.

But we battled on, looking at this, wandering to that or should I say sloshing back and forth because by now water had slipped into our shoes and was making headway into hat and collar. Faced with an onslaught of water of Biblical proportions we did what we always do being book-aholics and headed for a bookshop. Passing through the electronic monoliths that stop shoplifters, or at least detect them, I was dimly aware of a seated figure to the left; by the time we had shaken off some of the water, had some sympathetic looks from other shoppers who'd already dried off and glanced along the piles of books on elevated stands in front of the book shelves, we were halfway down the shop.

We drifted - I was convinced that we were steaming - from book shelf to book shelf moving along our usual path, pausing at the classics, looking at the biographies and humour and then coming to rest at the Sci-Fi; my partner's favourite genre. Nothing took our eye although there were new releases, knock down deals and of course the "recommended" chart. We did buy the latest Hairy Bikers Cookbook - my partner being a marvellously adventurous cook - it being justified as necessary (i.e. not to be wrapped as a Christmas present) because it has the recipe for Beef Wellington promised for Christmas Dinner. Only half drowned now and steaming less - I think - we moved back towards the monoliths through a shoal of oncoming drowned shoppers, dripping their way in. A voice called out.

"Fancy a book that's a romp of fun, drugs, smoking and rock n roll? There's no sex at all," the speaker cupped her mouth in her hand as she spied a child nearby look round. Adding more quietly to us, "I wonder if this town can take this kind of thing but you guys look like a pair who could handle it." Her voice was guttural, low and obviously female; in any other context it would have been seductive. Here in harsh shop-light and cold air it was piercing and playful.

Her face was bright, smiling and glowed with fun; I instantly liked her. Craig took the book offered and read the cover. "Thankyou for not Smoking by Arlo Flinn". As he looked through the first couple of pages of the paperback she chatted to him lightly, outlining what it was about. I could tell he liked her - I liked her!! - so it was a done deal. I said "go-on" unnecessarily, because I could tell he wanted it. Her face lit up. She offered to sign it for him.

She was the author. Despite my desire to write I closed up like a clam! She was published and sitting in Waterstones signing copies of her work - WOW! I was suddenly terrified that my partner would mention my writing and the degree. She asked Craig's name and wrote inside "To Craig....thank you! Arlo Flinn" then beaming warmly she handed it back to him. I took the book and escaped back to the till almost leaving any remaining dampness in my clothes back in the doorway!

I paid and we walked out wishing her good luck.

We made our way up the street and into the drizzle. I wanted to walk back and say that I wanted to be a writer and ask her a million questions. I wanted to say all those things about what I wanted to write. But I knew this was a cliché of the worst kind; mention that you want to be a writer to anyone and you instantly get treated to the "I've often thought I could write a book" or "I've got these stories that would make a good read" etc. etc. I imagined confessing to this author and her fixing her smile and thinking to herself "Oh no not another one!!"

I am probably doing her an injustice. I had a feeling of being inadequate not felt so strongly since I was a child - it was hero worship and fear that the words "I want to be like you" might slip out in a squeaky voice.

I wasn't jealous. I was scared. She was a giant, a towering figure of proved strength and power. She had done it, written her ideas down, edited it, published it and now she was selling her vision....her book.

I didn't realise that I was walking alongside my partner without saying anything, alone with my thoughts until a voice said, after reading my mind. "That will be you one day!"

I laughed and almost believed it.