Mirrors...

...on every conceivable surface in the *bathroom*. Not the bedroom. It's not the sleaze motel.

Going home today. Sniff. I had got used to business travel. Nobody at home lays all my toileteries out on a little hand towel and leaves a message on my pillow at night telling me what the weather is going to be like tomorrow (well, expect when the roof is leaking, but that's different.) Ah well, perhaps I will be snowed in. You never know.

Free evening in Vancouver.

Snow coming down hard. I will probably eschew the sights and stay indoors in my incredible hotel, the Metropolitan, instead. The light switches are huge, and so is the bed. Minibar, fruitbowl, swimming pool (not in my room), mirrors on every possible surface, who could ask for more? I am tipping anyone who so much as looks at me. The limo driver turned it down. He is actually taking me in a stretch limo to the airport tomorrow, because that's what the people he is picking up next have ordered. This is not the most surreal thing that has happened to me on tour. That prize probably has to go the talkshow I was on this afternoon. The guest before me was an Olympic gold medalist (at least I assume so; he said "I won the Olympics", and I am assuming he doesn't mean in a raffle.) Then I come on. I mentioned how much I loved the Canadian kids' programme The Littlest Hobo when I was growing up, and they made me sing the theme tune on air. By the time I left, everyone was singing it, make-up girl, cameraman, the works.

Still loving Canada. Canadians are fantastic. I'd move here if they'd let me. I have never felt so calm anywhere. It has to be the least pushy country on earth. I have heard Canadians called boring but that's only by people who mistake shouting for interesting. I don't only believe this because my book has gone top 10 here. I should mention that I have met one unpleasant Canadian, a sleazy bookseller who only looked at my breasts as we talked. Aside from that it has been a very successful trip.

Now if you'll excuse me I have an appointment with the minibar.

Just checked into my hotel in Vancouver.

The lights were already switched on.

I am

exhausted. But happy. Canada is eating me alive. But in a friendly way.

Wow. That sounded much more sordid than intended.

Too tired to blog in detail (eg just took me three attempts to type the word "detail"). Too tired to find a les sordid way of describing doing a publicity tour. Canadians though: lovely. I am yet to meet an unpleasant Canadian.

Tomorrow: Super Tuesday! Also: I get over my jetlag just in time to fly to Vancouver.

A Good Day

A big improvement! The talk went well, the audience were lovely, I sold out of copies of my book, my publishers took me out to lunch, they were fantastic, I made friends with another author, we went to the cinema, it was great. I am happy, I love Canada, it wasn't even that cold. And I have enough food left over from breakfast strategically stashed in the fridge in my hotel room that I don't need to order dinner tonight. Result!

Business Travel: an update

In the end I called reception to send up a maintenance man to show me how to switch on my lights (turn the little knob the wrong way until it feels like you're breaking it) and find the DVD player (pull out the fake drawer until it feels like you're breaking it). After he left I realised I should probably have tipped him too. Then I ordered room service and gave the guy an enormous tip before I realised that they had already added a tip to the bill. Tried to put a DVD on, realised all the DVDs I'd brought with me only work in the UK. Sat on the floor and cried. Hate business travel, hate hotels, hate travelling alone. Then watched Stargate: Atlantis and The Ghost Whisperer, which are two separate programmes that should merge - Jennifer Love Hewitt in a nightdress that is supposed to be an actual dress, sent into space to a watery space world full of dead people. Then sleep.

Task for today: give speech to 250 people on topic of me and my book. Wish me luck...

Business travel...

...I have questions.

1. Is it a bad sign that I can't figure out how to switch on the lights in my hotel bedroom?
2. Can I bring myself to ask someone at reception how to do it, or will I have to sit with only the bathroom light for illumination?
3. Do I have to tip the person who brings the room service or can I just add a tip to the check, assuming there is a check? I mean, I have to sign something, right?
4. Am I prepared to go without food rather than get this wrong?
5. If it says that all rooms have a DVD player, but my room doesn't have a DVD player, is it just that I don't know what a DVD player looks like, or can I ask someone?
6. Is there a course on this that I can do? By tonight?

The catchily-named iPod shuffle first line game

I'm off on tour to Canada (HELLO CANADA!) for a week, so in my absence I thought I'd leave a game for you to play: the catchily-named iPod shuffle first line game. Basically, it's the first lines of the first twenty songs that came up on my shuffle (or the non-instrumental English language ones anyway), and all you have to do is guess the song and the singer. No googling! You're only cheating yourselves. See you when I get back, or possibly in Canada, some of you - if you catch me on TV, be sure to wave.

1. Angry faces cursing loud
2. [spoken] I always dreamed the boy I love would come along
3. Baby do you understand me now, if sometimes you see that I'm mad
4. Well you can need me well I want you to
5. (What they do) They smile in your face, all the time they want to take your place
6. Sitting here eating my heart out waiting, waiting for some lover to come
7. And we like what you say, we got things we should learn
8. I was alone, I took a ride, I didn't know what I would find there
9. And it goes a little something like this!
10. Born only a month ago yet I'm (already) fully grown from head to toe
11. Oh the top is so much better than the bottom
12. Hey Mr DJ put a record on I want to dance with my baby
13. I stumbled out of bed, I got ready for the struggle
14. Rocking on the ocean, sucking up the sea
15. A compromise between honesty and lies
16. If the nightingales could sing like you they'd sing much sweeter than they do
17. I woke up this morning and seen something bright
18. Sweet wonderful you, you make me happy with the things you do
19. This is how I look without make-up
20. The Eastern world, it is exploding

Lolita

I notice the brilliantly depressing story about Woolworths having withdrawn from sale a range of furniture for young girls which they had the bright idea to name 'Lolita'. The BBC online story in question accuses the good people at Woolworths of not having any idea what the name Lolita actually refers to. But then, the BBC and the angry parents don't seem to know what the name Lolita refers to either:

Bedroom furniture for young girls with the brand name Lolita has been withdrawn by Woolworths following complaints from parents. A parenting website said it was in "unbelievably bad taste" to give the bed the same name as a novel about a sexually precocious young girl.

No. Lolita is not a novel about a sexually precocious young girl. Lolita is a novel about a child molester who persuades himself that a perfectly normal young girl is sexually precocious, in order to justify raping her. Lolita happens to be the best novel that I have ever read, and it's frustrating when people think it's about some young girl-slut - which is exactly what I thought it was about before I read it - and use the name as shorthand for a dangerously seductive underage girl. Ironically, the misunderstanding of Lolita by people who've never read it just serves to perpetuate the culture of sexualising young girls that Humbert Humbert, the narrator of Lolita, uses to legitimise his perversion.

Moral of the story? More people should read Lolita. And don't buy furniture from Woolworths.

Dreams can come true?

I had a dream last night that I met that lovely David Tennant. I was interviewing him. He was friendly and interesting and a little bit flirty, which is, funnily enough, exactly what I imagine that he is like. He didn't remember me, though, from the other times I've met him - in my other dreams - but I suppose he meets a lot of people, in dreams. He didn't like being famous much. Poor David.

And then my dream provided me with what is actually a pretty good idea for a novel, much to my surprise, and even more surprisingly I haven't forgotten it on waking up.

I only mention this to show that sometimes, my subconscious is on side. And as an excuse to print a pic of Mr Tennant in pyjamas, courtesy of those lovely folk at david-tennant.com.