I wrote my own name 2,000 times on Tuesday afternoon. An odd experience, to be sure. I got through two and a half brand new Sharpies. This was at a book distribution centre in an enormous warehouse near Didcot in Oxfordshire. I can’t bear writers who use columns to plug their books but mine’s called The Good Drinker and it’ll be available in all good bookshops, blah, blah, very soon.
So here I was facing a massive stack of them, all of which needed signing. “That’s half of them,” said a genial bloke called Steve, who was looking after us. We got stuck in. On my left, a nice woman from my publisher opened the book at the appropriate page and slid it in front of me to sign and pass it on to a younger woman from the publisher to my right, who passed it to another chap to put in a box. We were soon getting through them at a pace that earned us the praise of Steve, who also commended me on the legibility of my signature, which was nice.
