This Book is Dedicated to ... Oops! Bugger!

I had my second encounter with the popular (and eccentric) Urban Fantasy author Ben Aaronovitch yesterday. He was signing copies of his new novella The October Man at a new independent bookshop called Storysmith, a short distance from the centre of Bristol. I copy-edited the manuscript last year, so I was quite excited to learn that he was touring the UK to promote this one. On the bizarre grounds that it's cheaper and – slightly – more convenient to go to an event in a different country than it is to get to Wales's second city, I decided to pop along and say hello.

Bear in mind that I'd had a nice chat with Ben at his signing in Swansea last year. I'd also had a good chat with Stevie Finegan, Gollancz's publicist, while we were queueing to meet the man himself. Since then Stevie and I have often chatted on Twitter – mainly about her prodigious healthy appetite and her strange taste in ornaments.

More by luck than judgement (First Great Western made me feel quite nostalgic for Arriva Trains Fails), I was able to get to the bookshop a few minutes before Ben and Stevie did. She recognised me when I said hello, but Ben looked a bit vague until she jogged his memory. Stevie told me afterwards that he's quite forgetful anyway, but that was just a taster of the fun to follow.

The bookshop was packed for a lunchtime signing, including a lady who was at the Swansea signing and whose travel arrangements had also been buggered up by First Great Western. It turned out that we'd arrived at Temple Meads at the same time; if only we'd seen each other on the platform, we could have shared a taxi to Bedminster.

Ben gave very entertaining answers to some great questions, and then sat down at the front of the shop to sign everyone's books. To speed things up a bit, Stevie was writing everyone's names on Post-it Notes, which she then stuck to the front of the books before we got to the signing table. This is what she wrote on mine:

When I got to the table, I could tell that Ben's relentless criss-crossing of the mainland was starting to take its toll. He wrote a name in the book, and I looked at Stevie.

'He's dedicated it to you,' I said.

We all laughed, and Ben made a hasty correction. Sort of …

'That's the third one I've buggered up this week,' he replied.

As a result, I have a unique signed copy dedicated to my female alter ego, Stevie. As I said on Twitter in the evening, it was an easy mistake to make. After all, Ms Finegan and I have much the same measurements (distributed rather differently, of course).

Where I Go in My Dreams (Part 23)

In which The Author finds a place to revisit and one to avoid

I had a strange semi-lucid dream this morning, possibly fuelled by the painkillers I had to take in the early hours. (My shoulder is playing up again.) It was probably inspired in part by the many walks I've taken around the Cynon Valley in the last year and a half. I've been narrowing down possible routes for this year's sponsored walk in aid of Anthony Nolan, and also the cycling event I've outlined a couple of times.

It might also have something to do with this street in Merthyr Vale – currently scheduled for demolition, I've been told – which I stumbled upon at the end of April, while exploring the Trevithick Trail north from Abercynon.

To begin with I was on the 'old road' between Penrhiwceiber and Abercynon. That doesn't sound especially interesting, as it's pretty much one long stretch of ribbon development with side streets branching off now and again. But in my dream I'd somehow found my way to a back lane, separated from the main road by a steep bank and a dry stone wall. Thinking it might be an interesting diversion for the cyclists, I decided to explore it.

I went down a gentle slope for a few minutes, with no vehicle tracks or sign of recent activity. I was half-expecting it to end at a farm gate (I've been caught out like that a few times), but instead I arrived at what appeared to be a short row of abandoned cottages. I decided to stop and take a few photos before retracing my steps.

The outsides of the houses were pretty dilapidated, and the small front gardens were full of weeds and junk – broken kids' toys, bits of old cars, discarded furniture and domestic appliances, bags of rubbish that had split and spilled everywhere. It looked as though whoever had lived there had left in a hurry. The whole place was extremely eerie, and (even though I was dreaming) I was thinking about the terrifying episode of Torchwood called 'Countrycide' the whole time.

I was making my way around to the back of the row when I realised that the houses weren't abandoned at all. There was at least one very large family still in residence. Suddenly a whole gang of youngsters, scruffily dressed and unkempt, had appeared from nowhere. They were sitting on the low back wall or scattered around the broken furniture. A minute later they were joined by a small group of adults ranging from their late teens to (probably) mid-sixties. They seemed to be descended from travelling folk (or were possibly just squatting), as the kids and teenagers had obviously never seen the inside of a classroom, and I'm not sure the adults had either.

I explained that I'd managed to get lost while exploring the path, and apologised for invading their space. They weren't aggressive by any means, but I felt very intimidated the whole time. One of the men, who seemed to be the least frightening of the whole tribe, pointed to a gap between two of the cottages. He told me that if I followed this narrow, overgrown path for its length, it would take me back to the main road. I thanked him, apologised again, and made my excuses and left. Very quickly. When I saw a bus drive past the end of the path, I was extremely relieved to know I was almost back in civilisation again.

The second part of the dream took me along another path off the 'old road' – although how I got there is still a mystery. It was a very steep gravel slope, which you'd need a mountain bike or a 4×4 to negotiate if you weren't on foot. I followed it downhill for a while, came to a stile near a gate in a dry stone wall, and found another path branching off to the right. I had a feeling I knew where the right-hand branch would take me, so I crossed the stile and headed across a field full of sheep. Another stile led me to another steep downhill path, just compacted earth and bits of stone here and there. Further down I could see two large houses, so I decided to check them out.

This was a completely different story. The owners of one of the houses were in the front garden, which was well tended and welcoming. They were older than me, and were probably ageing hippies who'd bought this isolated spot as a retirement retreat. They could see I'd been walking for a while, and asked me if I'd like a glass of water. Their house was a warren of small rooms at odd angles to one another, decorated in a variety of bright clashing colours, and crammed full of books, records and interesting nick-nacks, rather like the home of two old friends in Aberdare. We chatted for a while until (in the words of Damon Albarn) I was rudely awakened by the dustman.

In real life, that is.

As with the strange village of Sychbant, which I visited in a dream nearly nine years ago, I'd love to revisit my new friends and their semirural hideaway in the South Wales Valleys. It could be time to heed the old advice and Keep Taking the Tablets.

A Superheroine is (Re)born

In which The Author finds a new leading lady

I appear to have accidentally stumbled upon the perfect person to take the lead role in the forthcoming The Incredible Vanishing Girl III.

She's Katie, my London contact with the Anthony Nolan charity. I knew she was on holiday the last time I emailed her, so I haven't bothered to follow it up until she was back in the office. About five minutes ago she emailed me, so I knew that if I rang her immediately I'd find her at her desk. By the time I got outside the library, she'd sneaked out for lunch. That's a new record, even by the standards of the two women who've featured in the earlier films.