However, I'm reasonably sure I was in London, and I think I can put some of the events into a kind of order:
Eating lots of free food and drinking lots of free drink, hurrah. Being a writer is good, and interestingly, free booze doesn't give me a hangover. However I am not, technically, a scientist, so this theory may not be entirely factual.
Staying in two unfamiliar and decidedly odd hotels. In the first I only saw one other person the whole time I was there. In the second I ate breakfast beneath a six foot embossed metal picture of a peacock, said breakfast brought to me by a russian lady wearing white cowboy boots. I'm reasonably confident this wasn't a dream. There were also lots of enormous photos of a darkish-skinned geezer with a dodgy afro, pink robes and a beatific grin. if I inadvertently joined a cult, please can someone let me know.
Talking to Maude's Creative Writing group who were funny and smart and made me feel that I was experienced enough to have stuff to tell them, but not so old that I might as well be dead. Although the rising hysteria when I realised I was talking to a group of people who possibly were born on or after nineteen ninety* nearly did me in at one point. I wobbled slightly, but I think I got away with it, although for some reason I did do a pirate impression at one point. Hmm.
Apologies for lack of toy-fu at the moment, just as it was picking up steam again. I have a few things on the go at the moment, and a tax bill of behemothic proportions just over the horizon that is causing me to concentrate, uncharacteristically, on getting some actual work done.
* It's just a shock, that's all. Suddenly, being born in nineteen seventy three and remembering the miners' strike on telly, and Margaret Thatcher makes me feel like I've lived through Vietnam, or the Napoleonic Wars or something. That, and the growing grey patches in my beard are starting to give me an air of venerability I'm not sure I can fully back up.