Made it safely through my second volunteer shift at the Vancouver International Writers & Readers Festival (the 16th annual) this evening. From 5 to 9 they had me co-hosting at the Quarterdeck Suite: the “green room” for the festival (why are green rooms never actually green?)

This is where the writers come to relax, hang out, nibble on some snacks before their next event. And the festival has spared them no expense: all the Timbits one could want. Tea, coffee (regular or decaf!), a pitcher of ice water, corn chips and salsa. Raw broccoli and dip.

If I was not sworn to secrecy by the standard volunteer non-disclosure agreement I could reveal the name of the diminuitive Canadian author who, slightly in her cups, staggered into the green room towards the end of my watch. From the surrounding blur she spotted the nearly empty Timbit platter on the table, and grabbed a straw. Inserting it into her right nostril with a grace and ease betraying long familiarity she lunged abruptly forward towards the generous coating of powdered icing sugar which remained.

Inhaled with such force that the last remaining doughnut hole was sucked right through the straw, and lodged itself against her septum. Fortunately the paramedics responded quickly, or this year’s Giller prize might well have been awarded posthumously.