PART ONE
EDBOOKFEST 2008: 9 - 11 AUGUST
In March 2007, the hardback of Unimagined was published and the Daily Mail gave it a stunning, full page review. I could barely contain my excitement on the commuter train to London Waterloo, as I turned the page of the newspaper and beheld a massive photo of myself in my suit at the age of one. Would my fellow commuters, those reading the same paper, recognise me?
A few weeks later, Catherine Lockerbie – Director of the Edinburgh International Book Festival – invited me to have an event at her Festival in August. Of course I accepted, my event went brilliantly, and I had the most wonderful time (as well as meeting the Director of the Sydney Writers’ Festival, who invited me to her Festival in May 2008, where I consequently got an Australian publishing deal and met the Director of the Ubud Writers’ Festival in Bali – who invited me to her Festival in October).
A year after my Daily Mail review, Jane Mays, the Literary Editor, contacted me and asked if I would review a book for her. In just a year I had gone from reviewee to reviewer. Of course, I said I’d be delighted.
When the book arrived, I took it out of the padded envelope and groaned.
The subtitle screamed ‘misery memoir’ and the photo of the cute little boy I found strangely annoying. (That’s my turf!)
I considered how best I could further the cause of my own book by trashing this one in the review. Alas, it was not to be. Sathnam Sanghera’s book is fresh and compelling, funny and sad, insightful and informative. Its content, style and structure are completely unique. Reluctantly, I had to give it a glowing review, which is here.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/books/article-522900/Breaking-free-ties-bind.html
In fact, I had written an even longer and more complimentary review, but the editor cut it down. I did trash the cover and subtitle though.
On his website, Sathnam Sanghera quotes me as follows:
“Gripping… elegant… there is no shred of misery or self-pity in this story, rather an endearing and intelligent humour which provokes honest laughter and absolute respect.”
The Daily Mail
So I’ve become the voice of The Daily Mail. Who would have thought it?
Sathnam emailed me via my website and thanked me for the review.
“I thank you and wish you the very best with your book and your life.”
He’s such a genuinely nice guy. Bastard.
We exchanged e-mails and text messages and agreed to meet sometime. He also texted nice things about my book, but we never spoke.
When I finally got to meet him (as described below), it just added to the list of reasons why I hate him. This is not a comprehensive list, but these are the key reasons:
· He’s a genuinely decent person.
· He’s articulate and intelligent.
· He’s good looking and very slim.
· He’s only 31 but, dressed appropriately, could pass for a student or even a Prefect in sixth-form.
· One of his part-time jobs is to review flashy cars for Management Today. He is given these for free, with a full tank of petrol, and typically has a review car whenever he actually needs a car (to travel away from London). And they give him money for doing this.
· His mother has given him permission to marry virtually anyone he wants to (as described in his book). (Latest update: even someone from the Sikhs' leatherworker caste.)
A few weeks after my Daily Mail review of Sathnam’s book, Catherine Lockerbie emailed me, offering me an event at the 2008 Edinburgh International Book Festival, on its opening day – Saturday 9th August. And the event was to be jointly with Sathnam Sanghera. (Judging by her wording, she was not aware that I had reviewed his book for The Daily Mail.) (It’s a good thing I didn’t trash his book.)
I purchased my First Class return train tickets (for a specific seat on a specific train, non-changeable, non-refundable, purchased months in advance to get the best possible price) and I was looking forward to travelling to Scotland on the train – which I consider to be a wonderful treat.
A few days before the much anticipated magical journey, Sathnam texted me offering me a ride to Edinburgh in his latest free car – a Bentley Continental GT Speed (apparently the fastest Bentley ever built, not that speed is an interest of mine).
Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed. I had been looking forward to that train journey, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and with the oil age coming to an end, one never to be repeated. I would not have said ‘yes’ for any Mercedes, BMW, Ferrari etc, but a Bentley is the ultimate, elegant supercar and surely this would be a spectacularly refined trip?
Sathnam advised that I would not be able to drive the car for insurance reasons, so I had to sell this to myself as being a chauffeur-driven journey to Edinburgh.
With our event being on Saturday afternoon, we would drive up on Friday evening. On Thursday, I slipped out of the office at lunchtime to visit Marks & Spencer to get supplies for the epic journey.
· 4 sandwiches (assorted) (expiry date: Saturday)
· 1 tray of sushi
· 4 bottles of freshly squeezed fruit juices
· 2 packets of crisps
· I packet of prawn crackers
· 1 tub of mini-meringues with Belgian chocolate centres
· I packet of chocolate-covered Brazil nuts
· 1 packet of chocolate-covered American peanuts
Back at the office, I finished the chocolate-covered American peanuts within about five minutes. I told Sathnam about the supplies and he compared me to his mother. He also said I could bring my ‘driving to Scotland mix’ CDs to play in the Bentley’s multi-CD deck, but he reserved the right to skip any track after a few seconds of listening to it. Fair enough.
On Friday afternoon, I received text updates from Sathnam as he approached my house. On getting the five-mile warning, I shut down my computer, packed it and stood peering out of my hallway window towards the entrance of the cul-de-sac. Suddenly, there it was, a Bentley Continental GT Speed – midnight blue with cream leather interior (okay, I couldn’t see the colour of the leather yet). Growling smoothly, ominously almost – the Bentley turned into the cul-de-sac and paused, seeming to eye up the terrain for possible dangers. Then suddenly it sped forward with a roar and reached my house in 1.7 seconds. Sathnam thoughtfully parked the Bentley in the very centre of the turning area, from where it was most conveniently viewable by all my neighbours.
I had to put my own luggage in the boot (and M&S bag in the back seat) and he refused to put on the chauffeur’s uniform I had hired for the occasion.
During the (alas, due to traffic) eight-hour journey, I was able to determine that Sathnam Sanghera – despite being an acclaimed writer and successful journalist – has not one shred of arrogance, narcissism or self-absorption. So, my initial assessment was correct – a complete bastard.
I inserted my CDs into the somewhat awkwardly positioned multi-CD deck in the glove box, and spent hours on the master control panel trying the different settings and sound effects (surround, concert hall, jazz club, outdoors etc). Sathnam allowed Paul Simon, Simon & Garfunkel, Joni Mitchell, the Bangles, Janis Ian, the Eurythmics, the Isley Brothers and Blondie, but whenever he recognised Abba, his twitchy trigger finger hit the ‘Skip’ button. When we’d worked through my mix CDs, he allowed me to play my Ultimate James Bond collection. As I pointed out, the authentic James Bond in Ian Fleming’s books drove a Bentley Continental.
The Bentley had a huge centre console of polished wood, with many shiny silver-coloured switches. This proved immensely useful for placing food items within Sathnam’s reach. I placed the tub of Marks & Spencer mini-meringues with Belgian chocolate centres on the centre console, and after a while Sathnam asked me to remove it, as he found himself unable to stop eating them. As I lifted the tub back towards myself, I accidently dropped it in my lap, and the min-meringues fell out in a swirl of thick chocolate dust. I replaced the mini-meringues in the tub and brushed the chocolate dust off my trousers – doubtless causing tens of thousands of pounds of depreciation to the Bentley.
The centre console was also useful for placing the chocolate-covered Brazil nuts in Sathnam’s reach, but one of these rolled into a little well which housed a shiny flick-switch. The well seemed to be designed to hold one Brazil nut, so cosily did the nut fit in there. I tried to prise the Brazil nut out with my fingers, at which point Sathnam snapped: “Don’t touch that! It’s the electronic handbrake.”
Photos: Satnav Sanghera (yeah, I know)
There was a big shiny knob in front of me, which controlled the airflow to the passenger side vent. It was perfect for hanging the plastic carrier bag I used as a bin during the voyage.
A real problem arose after we stopped at Southwaite service station, just before the Scottish border. There was only one cup holder, and this was under the pair of armrests in between our seats. It wasn’t very conveniently placed for the driver, being a bit far back, but, as Sathnam pointed out, had it been placed to the front, where it was easier to reach, it would have spoiled the perfect visual aesthetics of the dashboard and console. Sathnam never finished his coffee, so I had no way to dispose of the cup, and I spent the rest of the journey without my armrest. What an inconsiderate bastard.
"So, how do you get these cars?"
"Oh, I wrote a review of a Bentley recently, and they called me up and asked if I would like to try a GT Speed ... I wrote a bad review of a Maserati once, and they never offered me a car again ..."
(Dear Maserati, I would be delighted to review one of your cars. I had a Matchbox Maseratia Bora when I was a child, and I noted the very positive mention in my favourite James Bond film – 'On Her Majesty's Secret Service'. "... she married ... an Italian count who was killed in a Maserati with one of his mistresses." Best regards, Imran.)
A word on the Bentley’s performance. It was a very fast car, and could close the gap in all the traffic jams we encountered in nearly a second less than ordinary cars. But it was disappointingly noisy. I thought that a Bentley was supposed to be so smooth and quiet that you could never tell how fast you were going. But I was always able to guess how fast Sathnam was driving reasonably accurately (I could not see the speedo clearly from my side). So, it was not as ethereally silent as I thought a £140,000 ($250,000) Bentley would be.
But the biggest disappointment was the satellite navigation system. During the journey, I had hours to try it out. It was one of the integrated functions of the central control panel and shared the screen which also served as a television, audio control, mechanical status display, trip data display and so on. This is probably why it failed for me. Not having a touch screen, it was controlled by knobs which you use to scroll though letters and numbers, then hit the button to select each one. It was a nightmare to set, and completely impossible to use whilst driving. Not only that but, (perhaps I am really stupid), I was unable to find any way to enter a complete postcode. It would only accept the first four digits of our hotel’s postcode and that was it.
Frankly, a £99 TomTom is superior to this nightmare of user-unfriendliness and would be an essential accessory to mount onto the dashboard of your Bentley Continental GT Speed. (Even though it would spoil the perfect visual aesthetics of the interior.)
We reached Edinburgh in rainy darkness, spent some time looking for the Bonham hotel – as the Bentley knew its location only very approximately – manoeuvred the enormous car into the one remaining parking space of the hotel car park, checked-in and agreed to meet in the Writers’ Yurt (tent) the next day, shortly before our event at 2:30 pm.
The next morning it was overcast, but not actually raining, when I formulated my plan for the first part of the day. Dressed very casually in sandals, shorts and my 19-year-old ‘happy man’ t-shirt (as in photo above), I decided to drop into the Festival before it opened to collect my pass and say hello to the amazing Catherine Lockerbie, then walk over to Milton’s flat, and finally return to the hotel to shave and dress properly before my event.
The Festival opens to the public at 9:30 am, but I got there at 8:50 am. Something strange was going on – there were police everywhere around Charlotte Square Garden and the array of elaborate tents and covered walkways which constitute the Edinburgh International Book Festival. (It was funny, because I didn’t think that policemen, as a demographic group, were that interested in literature. Although thinking about it, I suppose that they might read a lot of, say, Agatha Christie, to help them with their exams for promotion to detective.) Also, it had started to rain.
I approached the security man at the gate and gave him my name, which he repeated into his walkie talkie. While we were waiting for a response, I asked him what was going on – why all the police?
“Oh, there’s a very special guest this morning,” he replied. (It couldn’t be me, as my event was in the afternoon and they had no idea I would drop-in this early.)
He let me in and I proceeded to the Writers’ Yurt, very conscious of the fact that it was now pouring with rain. The policemen seemed to have known this in advance, as they had their anoraks, whereas I looked as if I thought I was in Arizona.
I was graciously welcomed back at the reception of the Writers’ Yurt by a couple of the delightful Festival staff.
“Who’s the special guest?” I asked.
“It’s Gordon Brown – but it’s a surprise. No-one knows he coming.”
“Is he speaking at an event?”
“Oh yes – it’s sold out.”
“But if no-one knows he’s coming, how can it be sold out?”
She showed me the Festival programme, and specifically the entry for the 25th Anniversary Opening Event at 10 am – a ‘special guest from the world of politics’, to be interviewed by Ian Rankin.
“Is the Prime Minister coming in here?” (All Festival speakers come into the Writers’ Yurt.)
“Yes, he’s supposed to be.”
“So I can meet him?”
“Oh yes!”
The excitement of this was sombrely tempered by the fact that it was now raining buckets and quite chilly. In my sandals, shorts and ‘happy man’ t-shirt, I looked like a complete idiot.
The Writers’ Yurt was devoid of writers, it being so early, but the Festival staff were being briefed by Catherine Lockerbie in the ‘quiet area’.
Photo: BBC News
I settled down on a strategic sofa with a cup of tea. Men-in-grey-suits began to appear, some taking up positions in the tent and talking into their wrists. There were more policemen outside, a crowd of photographers gathering (so, someone knew) and umbrellas and anoraks everywhere.
The men-in-grey-suits didn’t overtly watch me (I’m sure that they are very skilled at doing this so that you don’t notice). Obviously, dressed the way I was, I must have looked too stupid to be an Al Qaeda assassin. (Our men-in-grey-suits look a lot friendlier than the American men-in-grey-suits.)
I had a chance to talk to Catherine when her meeting ended. I thanked her for inviting me, she thanked me for coming. Suddenly, the place was buzzing with immediate anticipation and Catherine walked off to greet the Prime Minister.
As he advanced through the room, with his PA in tow, the Prime Minister paused to speak – with expert, interested affability – with each individual who had placed themselves in his path. When my turn came, Catherine made the kindest introduction.
“Gordon, this is one of your fellow authors, Imran Ahmad. He’s just been to Australia with his book.”
The Prime Minister gave not one hint that my sandals, shorts and ‘happy man’ t-shirt made me look like an idiot in this cold, heavy rain. We shook hands and he asked me how it was going.
I reminded him that he already knew me. “We met last year at Lancaster House, when I slipped you a copy of my book with ‘Good luck with the new job’ inscribed inside it.”
“Ah, yes,” he nodded expertly and reassuringly, indicating that he remembered it well, but leaving me with a troubled feeling that this was a seasoned politician’s response. (At least he didn’t say he thought it was crap.)
“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have worn long trousers,” was my final comment, to which he kindly laughed.
I meant to ask him if he had a briefcase with the launch codes for our independent nuclear deterrent, but I completely forgot.
The Prime Minister moved on to the quiet area, where he sat signing a huge pile of books. I finished my tea in full view of the scrum of photographers outside the tent, wondering what they thought of this idiot wearing sandals, shorts and a ‘happy man’ t-shirt in this downpour.
I was given a ticket for the Prime Minister’s 10 am event, and was one of the last to enter the main auditorium (my morning visit to Milton’s flat now callously forgotten). The entrance was at the front, so about one thousand people in anoraks were able to witness the idiot in sandals, shorts and a ‘happy man’ t-shirt come in and look around for a seat. The event was a sell-out, even though there was no overt indication of who the special guest was.
The PM’s session with Ian Rankin was a very bookish conversation, leaving me the impression that Gordon Brown is an intelligent, measured man who lacks the easy, flashy media charisma of Blair and the Clintons. (But we already knew that, didn’t we?)
He was asked when he found the time to write, with the job of Prime Minister. The answer was early in the morning, but most of his books had already been written before he became PM. One hostile woman asked something like: was there any area in citizens’ lives, apart from sex, in which his government hadn’t tried to interfere?
Photo: BBC News
Back in the Writers’ Yurt, there was still a buzz of excitement as the Prime Minister hung around for a while, then he made his exit, the men-in-grey-suits and the police followed, and suddenly there was normality again. I mean, as normal as you can get in the Writers’ Yurt of the Edinburgh International Book Festival, which is the one place in the world I most like to be – you never know who you are going to meet (well, you can guess if you check the programme). Catherine Lockerbie does an amazing job putting this together (750 events!) and making it all work – she’s always on the go with her clipboard and her walkie-talkie. There’s one thing I’ve never seen her do – sit down.
The event with Sathnam seemed to go well (of course, I had put on long trousers by now), although the moderator, Roy Cross, dwelt too long on my appalling lack of success with women at university – prompting me to retort: "Ask about something else, dammit!" In the audience I was delighted to spot Professor Ruth Evans – Head of English Studies at Stirling University – who very kindly recently wrote the ‘Suggested Questions for Discussion’ for the Australian edition of Unimagined, which is coming out next month. (Does this mean that Unimagined is almost like, you know, literature?) Sathnam and I both had decent signing queues afterwards.
Photos: Alison Campbell
In the evening was the opening night party in the Spiegeltent. I rushed in early and grabbed a ‘strategic’ booth, waiting to see who Fate would bring my way. A charming American woman came up to me and asked if I was Imran Ahmad. She was Lisa Vickers, the American consul in Edinburgh, and she kindly spent a few minutes with me saying nice things about my book. I asked her how she recognised me and she said from the author photo on the book jacket. (To my friends: “See! It isn’t a too old photograph!”)
Bizarrely, we both got a mention in The Scotsman’s account of this party.
http://news.scotsman.com/johngibson/-It39s-jackets--off.4378659.jp
The next day I was going to be heading south in the train in the afternoon. I enjoyed again the fabulous breakfast buffet in the Bonham’s restaurant (deserted at 7:30 am on a Sunday). Whilst they were grilling my kippers, I quickly assembled my lunch rolls and wrapped them in paper towels.
I enjoyed a wonderful morning in Charlotte Square Garden and had a chance to thank Catherine Lockerbie again. One of the Festival staff said something very nice: “You’re always the writer who seems happiest to be here.” (That’s because I can’t believe my luck at being mistaken for a writer.)
Forlorn as usual to be leaving the Edinburgh International Book Festival, I took the train south in my annual state of melancholy, longing wistfully for a return. I got home at 10:30 pm, unpacked, then packed again, went to bed at 1 am, got up at 6:30 am, the taxi came at 7:30 am, to take me to Heathrow for the flight to Helsinki … they love their saunas, these Finns … and they are always on time for meetings ...
Unimagined in America: www.unimagined.org
PART TWO
EDBOOKFEST: 22 - 24 AUGUST
I returned to the Festival on the weekend of 23-24 August, taking a train up to Edinburgh on Friday night. At Kings Cross, there was a huge crowd waiting to board the train, but I was quite relaxed. This being the last train to Edinburgh on the Friday evening before a holiday weekend, I wouldn’t even contemplate this journey without a reserved seat in First Class. The crowd surged forward as soon as the platform number was revealed, and I still got caught up in the herd mentality – even though I knew I had a comfortable seat waiting for me. I boarded the train and began to arrange my stuff around my seat (suitcase in the luggage rack, jacket on the overhead shelf, food bag at my feet, book on the table etc). A man in the next carriage was yelling into his mobile phone. An attractive woman seated at the next table smiled at me, as we both realised we could hear a phone conversation taking place so far away. “… THERE ISN’T A SINGLE UNRESERVED SEAT! …” He was moving towards me … “… THIS IS A COMPLETE TYPICAL F--- He came into my carriage … He was a thin man, with very short, dark hair and wearing jeans and a t-shirt … “… MY TICKET? IT’S A STANDARD SAVER RETURN …” He sat down in the reserved seat opposite me (although a Standard Saver Return would not entitle him to a seat in First Class). “… WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO F---- An elegant Japanese couple stood hesitantly alongside me, conferring together and looking back and forth between their tickets and the seats opposite me. “May I see?” I asked them, and examined their seat reservations. “Will,” I said to the man on the phone, “these visitors to our country are waiting to take their seats.” Studiously not acknowledging that he had heard me, Will Self moved off down the carriage, back in the direction he had come from – still yelling into his phone. Later during the journey, I was unable to overcome my curiosity. I made the hazardous expedition into Standard Class and down the length of the train, to find out what had happened. The aisles and connecting areas were strewn with people on the floor: reading, talking, sleeping and (in some cases) drinking far too much. Eventually, I found him. He had a seat and was furiously scribbling notes and using a purple highlighter in a copy of Richard Dawkins’ ‘The God Delusion’. On Friday night I slept at Milton’s, but on Saturday I had to look elsewhere. Being the height of the Festival, my choice of accommodation was somewhat limited: a £450 suite in the Balmoral Hotel or a £34 student room at Heriot-Watt University (even Milton’s sofa had a longstanding prior booking on this night.) I booked the Heriot-Watt room, but it was really only just a fall-back, as I expected my prestigious and irresistible Writers’ Badge to provide me with sleeping opportunities on Saturday night (as well as free food and drink in the Writers’ Yurt).
Well, anyway, the bus to the campus only took 45 minutes. The next morning, I took the 8:32 am bus from the university back to town. A party of Japanese students boarded the bus on campus, managed by their English teacher – a young woman from London (south to southeast London, in my judgment). The teacher and a student sat immediately behind me. "What did you do last night?" asked the Japanese girl, in a soft, clear voice. "Oh, last night I really did nuffink," replied the teacher. "You did no-thing?" repeated the Japanese girl gently. I shook my head in despair. It's over. We're finished. During the Festival, I had the most delightful time (as usual), and even the weather was wonderful this weekend. It looked just like the photos on the EdBookFest website (taken that year we had a summer – when was it?).
I attended some wonderful sessions, which reaffirmed my belief that Charlotte Square Garden I met the delightful Linda Grant, gave her a copy of Unimagined, and thanked her for linking to this blog from hers. I had a wonderful chat with Ben Macintyre and gave him a copy of Unimagined, telling him that it had a James Bond thread running right through it. Two hours later I happened to pass Ben and his beautiful wife Kate Muir, who said to me: “Ben’s been reading your book and laughing out loud – he’s absolutely loving it!”
On Sunday morning, a quiet, unassuming chap wandered into the Writers’ Yurt. I could see that he had no Festival ID and obviously wasn’t supposed to be in here – maybe another wannabe writer? The Festival staff were all very busy, so gallantly I stepped in to deal with this situation, with my characteristic sensitivity and tact. I shared with him some advice on writing and getting published; I gave him a signed copy of my book (so that he would gain an appreciation of the standard of writing which has to be attained in order to get published); I let him have his photo taken with me; and then I gently nudged him out of the Writers’ Yurt. Although I am a successful internationally-published writer, I’m always ready to help aspiring writers on their long journey to some form of publication. On a serious note, this is what really happened. Salman Rushdie strolled into the Writers' Yurt with his cabin-baggage-size wheeled suitcase. He was extremely friendly and approachable – graciously willing to give anyone time for a chat. He accepted a signed and inscribed copy of my book, which I had prepared for him. (This was a very good thing, otherwise I would have had to find another 'Salman' to give it to.) I told him that he was mentioned in it. At that precise moment, Catherine Lockerbie came up to us and said to him, "That's a delighful book." (She's the best!) Then she dragged him off to his event in the main theatre, which was on a live link with the Melbourne Festival. I rushed there too and found a seat. His latest book, The Enchantress of Florence, is complex, rich and magical – as always. Sir Salman also spoke evocatively of his early life and his inspiration for writing (and his gossipy mother). http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/scotland/article4602319.ece I was expecting Salman Rushdie to be aloof and distant. In actual fact he was utterly charming. I have great respect for him. I don’t agree with all of his opinions, but he has the right to express them. If we aren’t free to explore and challenge our fundamental beliefs, then we become enslaved by them. Later that afternoon, I said goodbye (again) to Catherine Lockerbie and she breathed a sigh of relief that her pastry budget for the Writers’ Yurt would no longer be subjected to the strain caused by my extended presence. She eyed my badge, as if to say, "Shall I take that from you now?" I clutched it to my chest, as if to say, "From my cold, dead fingers." I returned to London on the train on Sunday night. Thank God it’s a holiday on Monday.
Unimagined in America: www.unimagined.org
Funny!
I wandered over from Linda Grant's The Thoughtful Dresser blog and now I've pre-ordered your book. It won't be out in America until October, so it will be a nice surprise when I've forgot all about it and it arrives out of the blue.
All best wishes to you from Joshua Tree, Mojave Desert, California.
Posted by: desertwind | August 17, 2008 at 09:30 AM
God, what a great post.
Posted by: Ms Baroque | August 17, 2008 at 10:52 PM
Great post. I laughed all day. Took me all day to read, as well. When is it coming out in paperback?
Posted by: jennifer | August 18, 2008 at 12:18 AM
We saw you last year at Edinburgh. If I had known you were returning we would have come to see you again! All the best for the future.
Posted by: Sally Welham | August 18, 2008 at 02:43 PM
It was great bumping into you at the book festival on Saturday night. I do hope you have recovered from being accosted by two strange women. Hurry up with the next book! I need a good laugh.Sally
Posted by: Sally Welham | August 24, 2008 at 03:32 PM
Great fun! I have friends who live in a yurt (as opposed to simply eating pastries in one) and they love it. I'll have a look in the US stores for your book. Is it available internationally?
Posted by: Miss Cavendish | August 25, 2008 at 05:10 AM
Very amusing post indeed! And I haven't finished yet. Couldn't help but think of Rowan Atkinson.
As for availability of U.K. titles in the US, I took Linda Grant's advice and ordered through the Book Depository. Free delivery anywhere in the world and still competitive pricing!
Posted by: Judith | August 26, 2008 at 03:49 PM
D*mnably funny reading. Excellent to hear things are going well, and sorry to have missed you in Edinburgh.
Posted by: Paul Higham | August 28, 2008 at 04:33 PM
Another hugely enjoyable read - many thanks for sending the link.
I feel very envious of you going to these international book fairs. But I am dealing with it in an adult way.
I hope you come to Ways With Words in Dartington one of these days. I'm sure you would be a big hit.
Posted by: Matt Harvey | August 28, 2008 at 11:23 PM
Brilliant - thanks for sending me the link! I'll pop it on my blog, I know a lot of readers were interested in Unimagined. Another book for my wishlist too... hmm...
Keep up the good work! When's the next book coming out?
Posted by: Liz Broomfield | August 30, 2008 at 12:12 PM
Thanks for sending me the link - v funny. You should do Bath Literature Festival in 2009 (I am, just got booked in today) - Daphne du Maurier and Warwick Words were also excellent - it's good cos get to add to my fridge-magnet collection. Not got an Edinburgh one yet!
Posted by: Maria McCarthy | September 02, 2008 at 07:10 PM
Oh yes, and Ways With Words too (don't know why I forgot it given that I live in Devon) - that's v gracious and classy!
Posted by: Maria McCarthy | September 02, 2008 at 07:11 PM
Terrific post. I'd forgotten how much I'd enjoyed "Imagined". When's the next one coming out?
Posted by: Jonathan Pinnock | September 02, 2008 at 08:10 PM
... or even "Unimagined" :(
Posted by: Jonathan Pinnock | September 02, 2008 at 08:11 PM
Hi Imran!
Not sure if I should compose myself before i start gushing about your book...(takes a breath to ensure words sound scholarly and learned).
I have recently read your book and the way you capture the pakistani migrant experience...brilliant.
Your flair for seemless writing, humour and insight creates a immediate connection with the reader. It was an amazing rollercoaster of emotions..from laughing out loud to seething anger at the blatant racism you experienced. Most of all, your book honoured the experience of growing up pakistani muslim within the west. It gave the childhood that we all similarly experienced, a voice.
Thank you for writing this book and Im so sorry to have missed you when you were in Australia. (It would have helped if I had read you book then and had known that you were coming)
Posted by: Abida Malik | September 20, 2008 at 05:16 AM
Good blog! I can't believe I read the whole thing! It doesn't sound like you're married. How come?
Posted by: Yanitan | March 26, 2009 at 04:59 AM
When are you coming to Canada?
Posted by: Yanitan | March 26, 2009 at 05:00 AM
Hi from Indiana
just read your book, wonderful, funny, honest, and refreshing.
Posted by: kay | April 18, 2009 at 04:01 PM