First things first: Ken Macleod won.

Which I’m happy about. I loved the book – as I always do with his stuff – and he seems to be a genuinely nice bloke. I’m hoping I can jump on him today and get him to sign my ancient copy of The Star Fraction and – if the moment is right – buy him beer. 

We didn’t get to hang around for as long as I would have liked, because I got a phonecall which went like this:

 

Me: Hello?

Phonecall: Mr Harkaway? I’m afraid we’re having to close the hotel.

Me: I am staying in the hotel. You cannot close the hotel. I decline to wander the streets of Bradford in my pajamas.

Phonecall: Unfortunately, it’s the law.

Me: in what way is it the law that I have to wander-

Phonecall: No, Mr H, it’s the law because we have lost electrical power to the hotel and by law that means we cannot keep the place open.

Me: You are kidding me.

Phonecall: No.

Me: Is this, by any chance, a Health & Saftey law?

Phonecall: I believe that it is.

Me: It is ass.

Phonecall: Yes, it is.

Me: I want a bath in that amazing bath in the bathroom. I do not want-

Phonecall: -to wander the streets of Bradford in your pajamas. I think that’s clear.

Me: I’m going to cry.

Phonecall: Please don’t do that. This is my thirtieth phonecall on this matter and I’m feeling a bit weepy.

Me: I’m sorry, it’s just-

Phonecall: We have booked you into another hotel. It’s moderately okay, although the manager has some kind of disease which means he can’t go out during the day.

Me: Chikungunya?

Phonecall: Vampirism. But you’ll be fine. I hear the breakfast is excellent. Although very few people seem to bother with it, for some reason.

Me: You’re sending me to a vampire hotel where the guests mysteriously don’t turn up for breakfast? 

Phonecall: Er.

Me: On Health & Saftey grounds?

Phonecall: It’s the law.

Me: Waaaaaaaah! *sobs*

 

Fortunately, Mrs Harkaway is made of sterner stuff than I am and travels with a wooden stake. I have no idea why. We went to the vampire hotel and the manager took one look and said the guy from our hotel had called to say it would be fine if we stayed there. Or rather, here, because I’m writing this from my bed in the hotel where they do not drink your blood overnight, and all is well. In fact, by the time we got here the nice National Grid people had finished their tea and the power was back on.

Happy endings all round. Except that I didn’t get the chance to buy Ken Macleod a pint because of the stupid running around from one hotel to another.