It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m on the train to Oxford, to go and see an interview with the author Frances Hardinge. The event is part of the Oxford Literary Festival – the first time I’ve ever been.
Hardinge writes fantastical, very gothic novels for the ‘YA’ (‘Young Adult’) market. YA is just a fancy way of saying ‘teenaged’ or ‘nearly teenaged’ in case you haven’t heard the term before.
The ticket collector has just hailed me on the train with the words ‘hello young man’, before checking my ticket. I always feel a slight frisson of pleasure when an older person describes me as such (which they still very, very occasionally do). Maybe the jovial ticket collector meant it ironically (he actually looks about my age). But it was still sweet music to my increasingly wrinkly and long-lobed ears.
Of course, in reality, by no stretch of the imagination can I be described as a young man. Does that mean, I worry to myself (as green fields flit by the train window marking the relentless passage of time), that I’m too old to be going to this interview? An interview with a ‘Young Adult’ author? Way too old?
What if I’m the oldest person in the auditorium? By a long stretch? Frances Hardinge is about my age probably… but she’s the author of her own books (obviously), not an inappropriately aged fanboy like me – so that doesn’t count.
If I’m the oldest there, will I be too embarrassed to queue for the book-signing at the end?
Maybe I can overcompensate, and say in a very loud voice as I reach the front of the queue… ‘Hi Frances… I’m your OLDEST fan!!!’
Would that make her laugh? Or will it just come across as creepy?
Earlier, I voiced these fears of mine to my daughter Annie – who was characteristically unsympathetic.
‘If I am the oldest person sitting in the audience,’ I told Annie, ‘I’m going to pull out a notebook and start scribbling into it. Maybe all the young people there will think I’m writing a review of the event and won’t be judgemental of me!’
Annie rolled her eyes at me, judgementally.
It’s an hour later and I’m at the Frances Hardinge event.
Frances Hardinge is sitting behind a desk at the front – wearing the floppy black fedora she always wears in promotional photos. Next to her is the person who’s going to interview her, a woman with springy, iron-coloured tresses who’s a writer too I think.
I look around the auditorium furtively. I don’t think I’m necessarily the oldest person here… but I appear to be the oldest person here by myself (some other middle-aged Dad types are dotted about the place… but they’ve cunningly shielded themselves from social unacceptability by bringing their kids).
Creepy. There’s no escaping it. That’s how I must come across.
Just then, moments before the event is about to start, another man walks in.
He must be in his sixties! And he’s quite odd looking. He has straggly white hair which is engulfed by a vivid red bandana.
He sits down at the end of my row by himself. So now there are two people on the creepy, solitary middle-aged men row.
But at least… he’s older than me! He’s now the oldest person here by himself!
I feel pleased.
The interview begins… and moments later the man in the bandana pulls out a notebook and begins scribbling in it, like he’s writing a review.
Hey! That’s MY trick! You’ve STOLEN it, you creepy old bastard!! I think to myself, uncharitably.
March 2023
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