A young Faber author reads from his new novel while wearing a cardboard box on his head. Nineteen interested peoples sit knee-to-knee on summery cushions (except for four lucky ones who nabbed the wrought-iron garden bench), and the glass hothouse doors are slid open a crack to let out some of the heat from the little birchwood-burning stove.
Where could such whimsies as this exist? I hesitate to tell you, because then there might not be room for me at the next one. But alright, it's the bookshop (a tiny conservatory) at The Wapping Project, run by the delightful, effervescent Lydia Fulton. Coming up, there's meant to be a different reading every week, though I fear the event may soon outgrow its magical confines. Which would be a shame.
The author in the photo above, taken last night, is Richard Milward, a 24-year-old from Middlesbrough in the north of England. He's funny and strange and brilliant. You might remember his debut, Apples. The book his St Martins-approved headpiece replicates, nearly, is Ten Storey Love Song, a new novel that is a single paragraph from beginning to end. Flick through it, he explained, and every page resembles a block of flats.
They will probably have all of them in the greenhouse. We'll just have to turn up in Wapping at 5 to secure a space. Which we will melt into, drunk on cocktails and wharves and things.
Posted by: Pete | March 18, 2009 at 01:18 PM