The recent Art of Fiction post about the loss of the Manchester Dutch Pancake House reminds me of one of my more depressing writing experiences.
Having the misfortune of being women writers (and yes, you blasted feminists, I choose my words carefully!), I and a mate of mine were once invited to address The Women Writers' Network in London. One of the main features of this visit was the fact that the committee members would take us out to dinner beforehand at a Dutch Pancake House somewhere near Haymarket.
Indeed, the most important feature: we were greeted with great excitement about the treat in store, and it slowly dawned on us that our main function that evening was to serve as an excuse for this outing. As soon as we had begun to tuck in to our glutinous servings, a conversation began around us about the best store in London to have arrange your wedding list. I kid you not, this was only a few years ago.
Well, after a bit they realised that they were being rude to their visiting authors, and that we were sharing murderous glances, and so they asked us politely: 'Well, where would you get your wedding list from?'
'I don't know what the hell you're on about,' said my mate, and they froze in horror and offence over their blueberry waffles or whatever they were, and the rest of the evening was pretty strained, and that was it for the credentials of me and my mate in the Good Fellowship of Women Writers.