They’re milling around like dogs, sniffing out each other’s credentials, ranking them on a scale of business relevance.
Apparently I’ve established my commercial value at the registration desk, as I stand alone, watching the speaker, cool, ice-blond, elegant, drifting gracefully between enclaves.
A bell rings, the speaker vanishes, delegates shuffle towards the auditorium.
In the adjacent cloakroom cubicle, someone is painfully, vocally retching. When the speaker emerges, we exchange furtive glances at the basins.
She takes one and leaves.
Later, mingling again, she cuts me dead.
Wrong credentials, wrong place, wrong time.
Story of my career.
This photo reminded me of a million conferences (hyperbole, moi?) that I must have attended throughout my career. Never an enthusiastic networker, how I hated that stage of the proceedings. Thanks again to someone who is positively relishing her second career, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, our esteemed leader, who still finds the time for Friday Fictioneers.