I spent a very pleasant hour on the weekend with a cup of tea and the program for the Sydney Writers' Festival which is on next month. Pleasant, that is, until I remembered a festival a few years ago when my highschool nemesis was on the program.
Highschool nemeses, as they age, should do the only respectable thing and allow themselves to be forced by dire economic circumstances to take mind-numbing jobs in overcrowded cities and generally live lives of woe. They should NOT become successful writers and pop up on writers' festival programs.
It was entirely possible (although not probable) that my nemesis had grown into a delightful, caring and non-mean person; it was entirely possible (although not probable) that we could be best-friends-forever just waiting to happen.
But I decided to be infantile and assume not, because I could that's why. Humph.
Anyhoo, when my eye lighted upon his name on the program all those years ago I thought "ha! On the program but no publicity shot!" ... but then I saw it, all black and white and serious and writerly in the left margin. Dang.
Then I thought maybe his session had been scheduled for some inhuman time (8am Sunday morning?) when no-one was awake let alone ready to hear about former-nemesis-penned tales, but no, there he was in a prime time evening slot. Dang.
I was somewhat appeased, however, when I realised his session was free. Free! Free I tell you! "No tickets, no takings..." I thought in a shameful bad karma way, "no cash for the trip to Sydney next year?"
How tightly did I cling to this infantile reasoning, but that was years ago and I've moved on. Clearly.
