I think the title of my auto-biography (naturally written on my deathbed at the grand old age of 99, my feeble arthritic fingers tapping away at a typewriter even when in the throes of dying delirium. And, yes, I will be using a typewriter despite all the whizzy new-age technology that will no doubt have been invented by 2087. It must be a typewriter for documentation of a literary life) will be 'Anna Kirk: From the Sublime to the Ridiculous'. Catchy, no?
It rather sums me up. Especially after the week I have just endured, enjoyed and, pretty much, survived.
Behold, dear reader...
Living with hippy Americans for a weekend.
Travels by megabus, tube, bus, tram and, the transportation system that started it all, my own two legs. Snow, smog and slime all traversed.
Fruit punch (two thirds vodka, one third peach schnapps, plus an orange segment and a twist of lime-rind), party rings, cheesy puffs and cheesy muzak steeped in nostalgia.
Cocktail bar complete with battered leather sofa and talk of naked skiing, religious persuasions, the institution of marriage, boiled eggs in shot glasses, and everything in between.
Raving to drum'n'bass until 3am, punctured by the dramatic muddying of a birthday girl's legs, restraining and comforting a beloved wronged woman, and chucking 99p earrings into grassy unknowns.
Eating Hedgehog chocolate cake at 5am, scooping spikes (thick icing studded with chocolate fingers and flakes) by the fingerful, and going on an early morning sugar trip to buzzy heights.
Settling like a slug in a sleeping bag on less than half a sofa, shared with a long-haired stoner, curled in foetal position and breathing in second-hand dope fumes from 6am until the moment I really needed to Brush. My. Teeth.
Academically analysing French medieval animals: foxes that have sex with chickens, Winnie-the-Pooh-like japes that include liberal use of the word 'whore', cats that claw off a priest's testicles, snails leading processions of a Parliamentary menagerie. Oh, the French, those jokers...
Being one of three hardcore groupies that dedicatedly follow a flame-haired 80's revivalist (through the wind-tunnels of Euston and snow and everything), positioned at the front of a grungy dancefloor, twirling in spinny, sequinned skirts, stripy socks, stick-on stars, and pink heels.
Chatting with Mullan about vaginal douches, Narnia, marveling at one's own cleverness, menstruation, the implausibility of a porn shop street, and whores with hearts. All a morning's work.
Visiting a publishing 'office' (penthouse apartment more like): all wooden floors and windows that stretch to the ceiling, letting the sun stream through. Balcony, view of St Paul's across the river, Penguin Classics mugs filled with milky tea, literary chit-chat, hungover smoking of rollies (them, not me), stroking of beautiful, recently-printed and personal books, free edition of perfectly produced quarterly - my kind of work place. Hard slog? Hard graft? Who cares!
After such a sublime and ridiculous week one must ask 'What the devil is next?'.
Well. Celebrating Valentines night with a bottle of Lambrini, something involving chocolate, soppy film and snuggling in bed with my man. My man,Wilkie Collins. Alas, he is more between the pages than between the sheets.
And I doubt all this would even fill a page of a chapter in the auto-biography. I'd better get out there pronto and acquire more best-selling material.