Convert Relations

We're in a launch meeting. It's the most democratic of all Pedantic meetings in that everyone attends, from the people in the accounts department to, well, me. Unfortunately, though I enjoy the meeting, I yawn a lot. This is not necessarily a good sign when the premise of the meeting is to get people in the company excited about the newest books on our list. It's not that I'm not excited. I'm just tired. And 15 or so of us sitting in a small, hot, enclosed room, takes me back to my schooldays when we sat in hermetically sealed class in a country with a fear of draughts akin only to that felt by rabid dogs for water, while Janice Glencourse at the front sounded out every syllable holding a ruler under the line, and I had already raced ahead and finished the book.

Thirty odd years later, it's a pile of AIs (Advance Information) hot off the photocopier (with me pressing the button) instead of Mansfield Park, but I still can't resist the urge to read ahead.

An AI is usually pretty self-explanatory - it should be since its purpose is to whet the retailer's appetite - but, to further enthuse us the editor in question talks about the book, elaborating on the sheet, usually with a few ums, to sell it to us. I'm sold. I've already got it on my list of things I want to read the minute the proofs arrive, and have flicked on down the pile and so, invariably, yes - I do yawn. Sometimes, with tears... I yawn and draw pictures of the Ubereditor's profile (I try to sit behind him so he can't see my eyes closing) and assume, with totally misplaced conviction, that I've 'got it' since, five minutes after the meeting, I've already forgotten every single title - plus who is editing it.

C- Marion could do better but tends to daydream in class...

I obviously need to pay more attention or take Ritalin.

Then last week.

The Butterfly Mosque. Ubereditor begins to tell us about this book which we're publishing next year. It's a most unusual account of a young American woman who converts to Islam, but it's different from other such tales because it was a choice she arrived at totally independently. 'Most women who convert to Islam do so because they fall in love or marry a Muslim...' he says with authority.

I tentatively put up my hand.

I should add here that one need not raise one's hand in order to be given permission to speak at a Pedantic meeting, but remember I've regressed several decades and mistakenly think I'm back at school.

I don't talk much at meetings. Frankly, when not yawning, I'm intimidated. Everyone else speaks a language in which I'm not even marginally fluent. My Italian's better than my publishing and that doesn't extend much beyond sex and menus - and neither of these would be much good in a launch meeting. When we're talking about the audience for the book, as in 'it would suit readers of...' despite being almost as widely read as the rest of the Pedants, my tongue twists like Janice Glencourse struggling to say 'Fanny' which, believe me, in Scottish working-class comprehensive, was a particular and cruel punishment.

My hand, waving in the torpid, bacon laden air (we're above a cafe) goes unnoticed.

'Erm...' I cough.

Several sets of eyes on the other side of the room turn towards me, and the Ubereditor is forced to turn his head, momentarily.

'Just like me...' I announce.

'Like you? What's like you?'

'I'm a Muslim.'

There's some generalised, faintly disbelieving, laughter.

'No really, I converted when I got married...'

Hah. You see, I don't say much, but when I do, I still have the power to surprise.