Prior to this, I had no desire to do anything but sleep today. But now I’m a little tempted to round up everyone else I know who writes and go for not really dinner, more just coffee and a pastry, some nice cafe time where we sit and sip and nibble and talk about people and things and words.
Please celebrate Leap Year Day in the traditional manner by taking a writer out for dinner.
It’s been four years since many authors had a good dinner. We are waiting. Many of us have our forks or chopsticks at the ready - some of us have had them ready for days. We will repay you by drifting off while the food is being served and then suddenly scribbling something down on a scrap of paper and asking whether or not “passionate” could validly be said to rhyme with “cash in it”, then absent-mindedly drinking too much and trying to recite the whole of Clive James’s “The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered” from memory.