It must be obvious by now that I know the authors of Diary of a Witchcraft Shop.
In fact, I spent most of last week staying in their home, eating their food, drinking their mead and gate-crashing their Solstice celebrations.
I may be a little biased, when I say that this is an hilarious and entirely entertaining book. But I don't think so.
I found myself drawn into these tales, when I could have been chatting with the authors instead. ("Unicorn menstrual pads?!" I asked, as Liz looked up in response to my laughter. "Yes." She nodded, sagely. Been there, got the t-shirt. And I read on.) One afternoon, as the photograph at the top of this page attests, I even disdained the wonders of Glastonbury, in order to loiter in the shop and finish it.
Of course, I had to. I'd grabbed the diary as soon as I'd spied it on the shelf. Once it was safely in my bag, Trevor had informed me that I was in it. "But you'll be too embarrassed to sue us."
My mind flitted over a decade of memories. It alighted on one. "Oh no! You didn't put that in there, did you?"
The git just laughed.
I was around the corner in the Blue Note cafe, supping latte and eating halloumi burgers, when I found my name. It wasn't at all incriminating. But that's no reason not to wind him up.
Trying to think up a killer one liner with which to assault him in front of his customers, I clambered off the high stool. Unfortunately, I misjudged the step and the whole seat went clattering, in full view of the diners.
Blood red and highly embarrassed, I quickly relocated around the corner. I entered the witchcraft shop with a stern expression. "Your shielding can go too far!" And Trevor just laughed again (profusely so, when he learned the context).