Yo, I love your stuff. Sigh

I saw Margaret Atwood at the train station this morning. I walked past her as she and her tall, bearded partner struggled with their luggage. I turned around and stood not far way, still struggling to be really sure - was it her? It was her nose that finally gave it away - that distinct, nearly fleshless sharpness. And of course her hair, which is still curled but now it is thinning and grey, so her locks seem to have relinquished their wildness in favour of a graceful flourish. Of course I behaved like an idiot. Having seen the plastic Canadian flag luggage tag daggling from the handle of her suitcase, and having all but assured myself that it was indeed Canada's most successful author standing just a few feet away, I approached and asked, sweetly, meekly, wearing my best Canadian couldn't-be-a-threat-to-you-if-I-wanted-to grin, "Are you Margaret Atwood?"
"Yes.?" she replied, with a slight inflection that made the answer sound just a little like a question.
I don't really remember what I said after that. I think I made a gleeful face of joy and surprise and perhaps I stumbled over something like "oh, wow," after which I stammered pieces about "I won't keep you" and "I'm Canadian." And this is the worst part -I actually said the words "I love your stuff." LOVE! STUFF! Horrible, and hardly the truth. I mean, I really enjoyed Good Bones and I remember loving Handmaid's Tale some years ago, but I couldn't drag myself through Blind Assassin or Edible Woman. She shook my hand, limply trusting her small fingers to my fleshy palm for just a moment. Throughout the encounter her eyes spoke of weariness and a politeness that was too entrenched to tell me to go away and stop bothering her. Before I left I asked if they were alright or if they needed a hand. Hearing the answer "no," I turned and left and didn't look back. I told everyone at work that I had met Margaret Atwood and no one knew who she was. Nevermind.

In other news, my collarbone is still slightly dislocated and I am going back to the chiropractor next week. Clunk Clunk Clunk everytime I rotate my right shoulder. How annoying.

And on Friday I have to get dressed up for the annual Scottish Tourism "Thistle" Awards. I don't know why I sign up for these things - I end up feeling so uncomfortable in my silly dress, wishing I had just stayed home. But I'll get to drink plenty of free wine and work is going to send me home afterward in a taxi. I like riding in taxis.