I don't believe it.

There I was having an exceedingly fannish day out in London at Picocon. Loaded up with bevvies, books and good conversation in the company of a fair proportion of LJ Friends and others, I opted to hit the road around 5.45pm as later trains to Reading are all cancelled after 9pm. It's not too chilly outside, and people are pouring out of the Albert Hall. The Circle Line is packed all the way from South Kensington to Paddington. The train to Reading is standing room only. Reading town centre is filling up with kids having a loud night out. I head for Sweeney's, Reading's best non-chain restaurant, have a pie with cauliflower cheese, and finish my book, Philip K. Dick's Valis. I pay the bill and wonder where I've put my long black coat. Um, what long black coat? The coat I left behind Erik's book tables at Picocon. Aaargh.

Should I blame:
a) Erik 'cloakroom attendant' Arthur,
b) Eemeli Aro, The Person To Blame If Things Go Horribly Wrong? (and who I've just e-mailed...),
c) too much Dry Blackthorn, or
d) myself for not immediately realising my move should have been 'Gloucester Road' instead of 'Paddington', thus not falling foul of the Knaresborough Rules. Bugger.