I sat in a creaky chair right at the back,

Deliberately hiding myself behind

A woman in a hat, smelling of Chanel No. 5.

You were in a far more comfortable seat,

Smiling smugly across your audience,

You always said you wanted to be interviewed,

To talk about your words, printed permanently,

A legacy to be left, haunting us all.

I purchased your book at the till, and it sits

At my feet in the bag, awaiting your signature

If only I had the courage to join that queue.

Your talk was intelligent, and the audience laughed

At the jokes you told; ones I had taught you.

The title was mine, too. I whispered it one night

Into your ear, and you’d shrugged. Maybe,

You said, but probably not.

And look at you now, as I near your table,

Your head bent low as you scribbled on pages.

I turned before I could reach the front,

My nerve giving out, I ran from the shop,

Taxis and buses cutting through anger

As I marched from the Waterstones

On Charing Cross Road.