IN the grandeur of AK Bell Library in Perth, I went to talk all things vintage.
Walking through the doors of this palatial pile, I introduced myself to a lady at the front holding a clipboard.
She smiles sweetly before delivering crushing news.
Tonight’s talk, she explained, would be conducted in the cafe rather than the main hall due to unsuccessful ticket sales.
Ushered past the Formica table that held a stack of sorry books, I looked down on my firstborn and barely recognised it.
Five years ago, freshly published and buzzing off the excitement of it all I can recall a crammed launch party in the basement of the Rutland. The following summer the book Festival came courting with a sold-out event.
There were various evenings dotted around Scotland after that, but with each passing month the crowds dwindled to intimate yet lovely crowd levels.
Last week I could have hosted all 13 women in the front room of my tiny Gorgie flat.
Don’t get me wrong, we still had fun but I was chatting about vintage with ladies who’d been there and worn it decades before.
It’s time to face facts. After five glorious years I need to hang up the stories and leave the party.
What a fun ride, but it’s time to write a new chapter.