An attendee at an autumn literature festival has waited an hour for an author to write a sentence inside a book she has not yet found time to open.
The reader explained that the signature would make the novel special. It would also make passing it to a charity shop significantly more complicated if she never got beyond page sixteen.
At the desk she asked for the inscription to say something personal, then panicked when the author requested her name. After rehearsing a thoughtful observation throughout the queue, she said she liked the cover.
The author thanked her with the practised warmth of somebody who has already written the same warm sentence forty-seven times.
Nearby, a man requested a message for a friend, creating a brief and moving fiction about who would eventually read the book.
Festivalgoers say the queue was an important part of the experience because it offered a rare chance to discuss books with people also avoiding them.
The attendee is now keeping the signed copy in immaculate condition and plans to buy a second, cheaper edition for actual reading.
This edition will join the other practical copies she is saving for when life becomes quieter.
