The Duck

I mentioned a rubber duck. This seems worthy of a little exposition.

This last weekend I developed a slight kleptomaniac streak, encouraged by friends and keenly focussed at the hotel at which Hyperion, the convention, was being held.

In summary I stole:

• 3 hashbrowns
• 2 tomatoes
• 1 mushroom
• 1 yoghurt
• 1 croissant
• 2 pain au raisin
• 1 pack of butter
• 1 pack of marmite
• 1 pack of Alpen (Before breakfast was even open, may I add.)
• 2 sachets of coffee
• 2 bottles of shampoo
• 4 bottles of shower gel
• 1 towel (From the maid's trolley in the corridor.)
• 1 pair of ice tongs (Was quite drunk. Have a feeling I may have built up to the ice tongs, but cannot remember what with.)
• ...and one rubber duck

Sunday morning on the grassy knoll, where the room party moved due to the glorious weather. A water fight that swiftly descended into an any-drink-available fight. Having missed the sunrise. Just sitting, waiting for breakfast to open to our reluctant but increasingly sober selves. The beer went flying. The coke and alcoholic something went flying.

I sat and watched. For I am restrained and mature and do not feel the need to participate in such juvenile antics. I was also locked out of my room because the 3 people I was sharing a double room with had crashed out about 3 a.m. and were sleeping so soundly they weren't hearing any amount of pouding at the door. I shared my piece of turf with a happy handful of drunks and insomniacs, including a bearded man in a leather mini skirt, webmaster extraordinaire of a particular amateur bondage site that I would be far happier not knowing the url of. I politely declined to pose. Also there was T., and N., and C., and another T., and various others whose names I'm not sure I ever quite caught. I sat and chatted with S., and got onto the topic of thieving from the hotel.

Around this time the rubber ducks first featured in the water fight. I quite like the hotel we stayed at. They left bright yellow rubber ducks in the bathrooms. These ducks had small holes just beneath their tail feathers and worked quite well for squirting water at people. They were good ducks. I think we were talking about what else I could pilfer, and I mentioned that lifting a duck was something I might be interested in.

But that I wasn't sure what I could possibly do with a rubber duck.

And then I thought, oh, I should get it signed! I should walk into the autograph sessions and get a duck signed. A memento of the convention. Something to take away with me, something for me as a fan.

I wasn't actually going to bother. As a rule I hate getting autographs. Queuing excessively and then parading past, having someone you don't know scribble first your name and then their name, and then walking away again, left with a small piece of writing with minimal and only ever associated meaning. Some people say it's not about the signature, it's about actually meeting the person. Once more I say, parading past is not really what I call 'meeting' someone. It's just my personal reaction, but I normally just walk away feeling cheap and shallow. I'm happy to leave celebrities to themselves; there's a lot to be said for a healthy sense of distance between the job and the person. I love meeting people and I can't imagine why meeting a celebrity should be any different, but signing events are an extension of the job rather than the person.

S. foolishly decided to turn my hypothetical caper into a bit of a bet. He'd buy me a drink for every guest signature I could get on a rubber duck. To cut a fairly medium sized story quite a bit shorter:

Need I say more? I now have a duck.

Posted by Missiedith at June 19, 2004 5:37 PM | TrackBack