Mortification: Writers’ Stories of Their Public Shame Read Online Free PDF

was carrying a box of champagne (the payment for the reading, and a drink which makes me violently ill), and I was struggling.
    It took several minutes for us to draw adjacent. As they passed by, the boy-teen said, ‘You’re Nicola Barker, aren’t you?’ I stopped, panting slightly; ‘Yes, I am.’
    ‘We just went to see you reading,’ he said.
    ‘Oh, right,’ I puffed. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
    No answer.
    ‘We took your book
Reversed Forecast
on holiday with us last year,’ the girl-teen eventually continued, ‘and I was so irritated by it that I forced him to read it.’
    He nodded. ‘Neither of us understood the ending. We were so infuriated by the whole experience that we travelled all the way down here tonight, in hope of some kind of clarification …’ He paused, glancing down witheringly at my box of champagne. ‘But I’m afraid we didn’t get any.’

‘A guest sees more in an hour than the host in a year.’
Polish proverb
Bernard MacLaverty
    Sometimes organizations are genuinely broke and you find yourself agreeing to eat. with the organizer’s in-laws.
    We – the organizer and myself along with a couple of local writers – arrived at the in-laws’ apartment in good time. The organizer pressed the bell and this started a cacophonous barking. Enough for two dogs. Then a female voice screamed ‘Stop it – Jules. Jim, stop it this minute.’
    We heard scrabbling at the lock and were unsure if it was the dogs or the hostess trying to open the door. The door opened a fraction. And the barking got louder.
    A small woman peered out. But before she could do anything one of the dogs squirmed between her legs and dashed about the marble landing fit to burst.
    It was a boxer – caramel-coloured with a black savage face. Another boxer followed before the woman could get her legs closed. The dogs flung themselves at the visitors’ genitals but sheered off at the last moment. They continued to attack while the hostess continued to shout at them. ‘Jules – Jim – stop it this minute.’ They barked loudly and continuously, racing to and fro, interfering with every movement the guests made. I tried to move slowly and deliberately so’s not to startle or anger the dogs any more than was necessary. I’m terrified of dogs. I don’t remember it but I’m told when I was a baby in a pram I was bitten on the head by a next-door dog called Trixie – so somewhere in my subconscious I’m shit scared.
    A boxer is sitting back on his haunches in front of me barking to burst ear-drums and baring his teeth and I am trying to be pleasant to the hostess. The other dog is somewhere behind me. The light from the hallway shows that in their excitement the dogs have been pissing all over the place – including my shoes and trousers. ‘Look what you’re doing – Jules, Jim, stop right now,’ she yells. The dogs seem demented – squirting piss left, right and centre as they race around the landing and hallway, their claws scraping. ‘How dare you! Get up to your bed. Get inside this minute.’ I’m trying to air-kiss the hostess as she screams and goes through great bouts of eye-rolling. ‘Delighted to meet you,’ I say and she nods. The next guest in line attempts to embrace her but she bends down and catches either Jules or Jim by the studded collar and flings him bodily down the hallway. They race out of sight into another room. ‘How dare you! This happens every time. Jim, Jules, I’ll not warn you again.’ They are in the distance for a moment or two.
    The hostess straightens up and completes greeting the other guests. What a total nonsense all this is. This scene must happen every time the door-bell rings. These people invited us. We came on time. Why weren’t these hounds put somewhere else? Our hostess says, ‘They’re perfectly harmless – they wouldn’t touch you – they’re just a bit excited by strangers.’ So it’s the guests who are causing the problem. They’re the ones to blame.