Not a day out. Days. Days and Days. The Cheltenham Literature Festival is like the SuperBowl for books. I dipped my toe in the festival waters last year, and was hooked. This year … well … see for yourself.
Can you see — Neil Gaiman [pornographic cookbook]. Derek Jacobi [monk, emperor, hamlet, lear, and time lord]. Alison Weir [one hundred years of history in two minutes or less]. Yummy cakes [gluten free!]. Microbiology [urban bee keeping]. L‘Étranger [Aujourd’hui, maman est morte]. Horrible History [poo!]. Rainbow Fairies [Sparkle! Sparkle! Sparkle!]. Lucy Worsley [the most adorable torture chamber curator you’ll ever meet]. Cath Kidston [do not leave her alone with Martha Stewart. THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE.]. Kate Mosse [Apparently, she’s obsessed with Carcassone. Surprise.]. Hennie Haworth [Stickers and bourgeois shabby chic]. The Great Tapestry of Scotland [What? Here!?]. Holst conducting another wonderful festival year [I can hear the music]. Me, grinning ear to ear [WOW!]. And did I mention the kitchen toilets?
I need a nap. For about six months. Absent extreme napping, I’ll be huddling in my glass room, with happy light bravely glowing against the grey sky and coffee on tap, snuggling up to the books and memories taken away from this year’s festival. If you possibly have the chance to attend this event or one like it — go! Even if you just have one cake, buy just one book, and meet just one author. It’ll change you.