Circling. Cravats. Publicists.

The first stop of my last day was a bookshop in the top of Harrods. Harrods was a trip. In the four years I lived in London I had never set foot inside the door, and I had no idea it was so funky inside. At that time my monthly clothing budget was around four pounds, and I had usually gargled that before it could even snag me a pair of socks.

I had been directed to the childrens' book department, which is at the top of the 'Egyptian escalator.' I didn't know the ancient Egyptians had discovered the escalator, but I was soon put right. This one seemed to have been excavated from somewhere in Giza and reconstructed piece by piece in the heart of Knightsbridge. It carried me up four levels, surrounded by a wealth of brass ornament featuring snakes and the like, with a strangely prescient touch of art deco. Massive sandstone pillars were carved with Egyptian gods. There were several I recognised, but the only one I could name was Anubis, presumably in town to pick up a Chanel bag and a pair of slingbacks for Mrs. Anubis.

Penny Publicist awaited me in the book department. 'Thank goodness you look like your picture' she said as I came in, although there wasn't another soul in the department apart from the shop assistant, and she was a girl. Penny was charming, and after I signed a pile of books she waited patiently while I emptied the shop of its entire stock of Doctor Who books. For my kids, you understand. Doctor Who may have travelled from the dawn of humanity to its fiery end, but he has yet to arrive in Spain.

I found out that September is the touring season for authors. They were coming in the windows, and in almost every shop we visited there was an author leaving as we arrived, and another arriving as we left. At Waterstones in Picadilly they were circling in a holding pattern in the stairwell. I have no doubt that with a good rifle and a vantage point in the Charing Cross Road you could bag a dozen in the space of an hour.

The standard uniform, at least among the more mature authors, is a smart jacket or suit and a silk cravat. 'Maybe I should get myself an outfit like that', I speculated. 'You're fine as you are,' said Penny, with admirable professionalism. Publicists are trained not to laugh derisively at their clients, just as hairdressers are trained not to say 'Oh crap!' when they're working at the back of your head. It was a quiet day, involving stock signings in a series of shops, with no fanfare. As an unknown author I can blend with the other customers, who look at me slightly suspiciously while I deface piles of books in a corner. After a busy week in the US I was glad of the break. I was sure my face would fall off if I had to smile much more.

I stayed overnight with my brother, who lives conveniently near Gatwick, and took an early flight home in the morning. I had planned to stay another day, but our house in Spain was without water as it had all drained out of the pipes and flooded the basement. The power supply was reduced to one electric socket with extension leads snaking in all directions, and I was needed at the pumps. Where we live, most houses over a decade old seem to have been designed by clowns. Turning on the tap is liable to make the lights go out, and a ring on the doorbell might produce a jet of water from under the sink. It's easy to understand why most plumbers are electricians and vice versa, although their verdict is usually the same: 'Oooh, complicated. Very complicated. You'd have to find the problem first, then fix it.'

Fortunately we found a plumbtrician who instinctively grasped that that was why we had called him, and what's more he knew where to start. Much remains to be fixed, but we now have both power and water simultaneously, and since that returns me to a semblance of normality I will put this blog in the freezer until my next trip, which I'm told will be sometime in summer 07. You have been warned.