The Daggers are coming – the CWA Duncan Lawrie Dagger Awards, the Crime Writers’ Association’s annual prizes. And no, these are not prizes for Crime of the Year. They’re awards for crime writing. I’m sure of it. I’m helping organize the awards dinner, so I can say definitively that the evening will be grand and fully civilized. No knife fights at the banquet, no police tape around the press table. No concertina wire blocking the stage in a John Le Carre/”Spy Who Came in from the Cold” homage. Shame about that. Crime writing is about suspense. Making winners dodge snipers and guard dogs to claim their award would keep the tension at a turbojet pitch.
This is why I’m not allowed to plan the event.
And that’s just as well, because I need every second between now and Thursday night to get myself girlied up.
The Daggers are a black tie affair and, as this photo reveals, my normal working attire isn’t going to cut it. So I’ve drawn up a grooming battle plan. Here’s how it’s going.
Saturday 30th June, 0900 hours – Decide I need to look fabulous for the awards. Realize this will involve a cocktail dress, high heels, makeup, and decent hair.
Saturday 30th June, 0903 hours – Panic.
0927 hours – Book haircut. Book “manicure.” What is this procedure? Ask writer friends. None know. Bite fingernails.
1020 hours – Pull dress from back of closet. Found it! Wave dress over head like a battle standard, shouting, “Woo hoo!” Feel faint with relief. Watch as husband shakes his head and mutters, “This happens every time.”
1200 hours – Look at dress. Look at waist. Go to gym. I will be fabulous!
1230 hours – At gym, cling to Stairmaster like Jack Bauer hanging from the skids of a plunging CTU helicopter. Am I fabulous yet?
1330 hours – Crawl from car into house. Eat three cinnamon rolls.
1500 hours – Decide cinnamon rolls do not constitute a good lunch. Take daughter out to restaurant.
1800 hours – Go to Mass. Vacillate between accepting “inner beauty” theory of fabulousness, or lighting enough candles to set the church on fire. Go home, set up small pagan sacrificial altar, just in case.
2100 hours – Discover there are still cinnamon rolls.
Sunday 1st July, 1317 hours – Adjusting battle plan. Update to follow.
3 responses so far ↓
susan // July 1, 2007 at 6:31 pm |
If I lived nearby, Meg, I’d make the sacrifice and help you out with those cinnamon rolls. I would, truly.
Well, no matter how many rolls you have under your belt (cinnamon rolls, I mean), I’m sure you’ll knock ‘em dead.
Send pictures.
Meg // July 1, 2007 at 9:20 pm |
I knew I could count on backup from the Tactical Commander of the GGU. See that mountain of cinnamon rolls? Take it!
Ken // July 2, 2007 at 6:12 am |
Meg, I’m sure you’d look good in a burlap sack, cinnamon rolls notwithstanding.