Another four to go then it's me in front of David Sedaris. He's going to ask me what I want him to put as a dedication when he signs the new book of his I've just bought. Ask me about the weather, David, or why cats have four feet, anything but what dedication I want. I can't think of thing. Nada. Not a sausage. I'm blank, and, bizarrely, starting to feel something not unlike the tremors of a mild panic attack. C'mon Archimedes, pull it together, take a deep breath or something, he's a writer, a generous, funny, spirited man, not Torquemada...

 Sounds like the Brummies he's talking with now are having a hoot. Down specially for the reading, they're saying. That's love. Reciprocated; he's just given them some free tickets to another event he's booked in for. They're walking away in a collective swoon. 

Wonder if he thinks I'm Italian because my friend in front of me whose book he's just signing actually is. Oh, he's asked the question. I am Italian, she's saying, and now they're rapping about the UK citizenship test and a book festival near Torino. 

And it's me up, my turn, and I'm doing it already...mouth flopped open like a middle aged guppy...here we go...My name?...Archimedes. Do I speak Italian? I can, but I dare n't say so since you might be fluent in raw Tuscan or earthy Roman and ask me something or fling an Italian Bon mot at me, and I'll clam up even more.

 He's doing a doodle, I'm not that boring am I? No, not a doodle, it's a signature owl...that's different...not had that before. Most authors are scrawl and pass; scrawl something illegible then pass on to the next person. 

It's come to me! I know what I can speak to him about. Did n't he mention swimming at Kensington Leisure centre? Near enough to where I live for me to smell the chlorine and the bleach...we have a common point...finally.