Well, at least I made some sort of impression.

My close encounters with mystery novelists continue. I went to see Ian Rankin talk about his new Rebus novel tonight. He charmed the audience with his self-deprecating wit, charmed me by admitting the last two albums he bought were Mogwai and Arab Strap (he quoted Cure lyrics in one book, and I swooned), promised not to kill off Rebus in his final novel, answered inane questions about his favourite cheese, and drew naughts and crosses in the book he signed for me.


I totally dorked out, as I do in these situations, and blindly rambled to him about how I discovered his books while living in Edinburgh and how they enhanced my appreciation of the city (or some such mortifying drivel). This of course surprised him as Rebus's Edinburgh is dark, gritty and crime-ridden. He asked where I was from, and said 'Ohhhhhhh, I know Kingston'. I suspect the fact that I hail from a city with four prisons made everything illuminated. You KNOW I'm tough.

Sigh. He's just so cool.