the enormity of the warehouse. Books were piled floor to ceiling and forklift trucks buzzed about.
We were also confronted by the sheer damn sexiness of Iain Anderson, ‘Head Book Pulper.’ I had imagined some fusty old git and I blushed when he held out his hand to greet us.
“Coco Pinchard!” his voice echoed confidently, “the writer and poet.” I guffawed like a slapper on a hen night and went red. He put his hand on the small of my back and ushered us into a nearby Cherry Picker. Chris hopped in after and he closed the gate.
Our bodies were packed close as we rose up over the warehouse. With his full lips, dark stubble and muscular lean body, Chris and I locked eyes in agreement. He was hot.
“You just made it,” said Iain as the Cherry Picker slowed its climb. “Chasing Diana Spencer is next.” He pointed to a forklift carrying a wooden palette stacked high with my book and moving towards the pulping machine.
I went to say something profound but the forklift swerved and dumped them in one go.
As they hit the spinning blades, the hardback covers squealed and cracked. I felt tears coming and for some reason, buried my head in Iain’s chest. It was firm and muscled and he smelt so wonderful.
I realised what I was doing and pulled away, but a big string of snot hung between my nose and his shirt pocket.
“Oh god!” I said, mortified. Chris’ eyebrows shot up and he fumbled for a tissue.
There is nowhere to run in a Cherry Picker, and it was a long minute before all the snot was accounted for.
“We often forget how tough it is to be a writer,” said Iain as we descended back to earth. I wasn’t sure if he was changing the subject or being polite about the silvery trail of snot now drying on his shirt.
“A lot of the staff read your book this week. It’s great,” he said. “In fact, we reviewed it in our internal magazine, Pulped Fiction.”
“Thank you,” I said as he helped us out.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have more time to talk to you, but I’ve got to go, best of luck,” he said.
And that was it, over so quickly.
On the way home in the car, Chris asked if I had had the anticipated closure.
“No, but I now have a nice cringe-worthy memory to add to my woes.”
“I know,” said Chris. “If he’d have been a minger it would’ve been much less embarrassing.”
“It’s made me realise that if I ever go on the pull again, I’m limited to the over forties. Your youth, it goes.”
“Try being me,” said Chris. “In gay years I’m virtually a pensioner.”
When I got home, Iain had emailed me the book review. I have attached it.
Chasing Diana Spencer By Coco Pinchard Published by House Of Randoms. £19.99
A sublime piece of comic fiction from first time writer Coco Pinchard. Set in 1981 in a parallel reality, Prince Charles is to announce his engagement to Camilla Parker-Bowles. With a week to go before the official announcement, the Queen is visited by the ghost of Queen Elizabeth I, who informs her that a grave error has occurred in the order of the Universe.
If she wants to save the monarchy, and the future of humanity, Prince Charles must marry a young woman called Diana Spencer, working as a ski instructor in a sleepy corner of France. The Queen is forced to don a disguise and undertake an epic journey to find Diana before it’s all too late. Full of comedy, drama, and delightful plot twists this novel must be read before the scheduled shred.
Sunday 8th February 13:30
TO: [email protected]
Are you around for some Sunday lunch? Rosencrantz is in love, Marika is in love. I am not. Are you? You know I always wish you happiness but please don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love since yesterday. I need a fellow ying for their loved up yang.
Marika had a wonderful dinner with her Greek guy, Aristotle. He was chivalrous, made her laugh and the lingering kiss he gave her whilst pressed up against the gas meter was so good she has lost the will to
We were also confronted by the sheer damn sexiness of Iain Anderson, ‘Head Book Pulper.’ I had imagined some fusty old git and I blushed when he held out his hand to greet us.
“Coco Pinchard!” his voice echoed confidently, “the writer and poet.” I guffawed like a slapper on a hen night and went red. He put his hand on the small of my back and ushered us into a nearby Cherry Picker. Chris hopped in after and he closed the gate.
Our bodies were packed close as we rose up over the warehouse. With his full lips, dark stubble and muscular lean body, Chris and I locked eyes in agreement. He was hot.
“You just made it,” said Iain as the Cherry Picker slowed its climb. “Chasing Diana Spencer is next.” He pointed to a forklift carrying a wooden palette stacked high with my book and moving towards the pulping machine.
I went to say something profound but the forklift swerved and dumped them in one go.
As they hit the spinning blades, the hardback covers squealed and cracked. I felt tears coming and for some reason, buried my head in Iain’s chest. It was firm and muscled and he smelt so wonderful.
I realised what I was doing and pulled away, but a big string of snot hung between my nose and his shirt pocket.
“Oh god!” I said, mortified. Chris’ eyebrows shot up and he fumbled for a tissue.
There is nowhere to run in a Cherry Picker, and it was a long minute before all the snot was accounted for.
“We often forget how tough it is to be a writer,” said Iain as we descended back to earth. I wasn’t sure if he was changing the subject or being polite about the silvery trail of snot now drying on his shirt.
“A lot of the staff read your book this week. It’s great,” he said. “In fact, we reviewed it in our internal magazine, Pulped Fiction.”
“Thank you,” I said as he helped us out.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have more time to talk to you, but I’ve got to go, best of luck,” he said.
And that was it, over so quickly.
On the way home in the car, Chris asked if I had had the anticipated closure.
“No, but I now have a nice cringe-worthy memory to add to my woes.”
“I know,” said Chris. “If he’d have been a minger it would’ve been much less embarrassing.”
“It’s made me realise that if I ever go on the pull again, I’m limited to the over forties. Your youth, it goes.”
“Try being me,” said Chris. “In gay years I’m virtually a pensioner.”
When I got home, Iain had emailed me the book review. I have attached it.
Chasing Diana Spencer By Coco Pinchard Published by House Of Randoms. £19.99
A sublime piece of comic fiction from first time writer Coco Pinchard. Set in 1981 in a parallel reality, Prince Charles is to announce his engagement to Camilla Parker-Bowles. With a week to go before the official announcement, the Queen is visited by the ghost of Queen Elizabeth I, who informs her that a grave error has occurred in the order of the Universe.
If she wants to save the monarchy, and the future of humanity, Prince Charles must marry a young woman called Diana Spencer, working as a ski instructor in a sleepy corner of France. The Queen is forced to don a disguise and undertake an epic journey to find Diana before it’s all too late. Full of comedy, drama, and delightful plot twists this novel must be read before the scheduled shred.
Sunday 8th February 13:30
TO: [email protected]
Are you around for some Sunday lunch? Rosencrantz is in love, Marika is in love. I am not. Are you? You know I always wish you happiness but please don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love since yesterday. I need a fellow ying for their loved up yang.
Marika had a wonderful dinner with her Greek guy, Aristotle. He was chivalrous, made her laugh and the lingering kiss he gave her whilst pressed up against the gas meter was so good she has lost the will to
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