Meg's Blog


Hi. I have about five minutes of downtime, so I thought I'd update you on a few things.

1) The message boards at Megcabotbookclub.com are back up. You may now carry on posting like mad about this month's book pick, ONE OF THOSE HIDEOUS BOOKS WHERE THE MOTHER DIES (yes, that really is the title, and if you haven't snagged a copy yet, you really should, because it's great).

2) I just took a lovely English bubble bath with some Molton Brown products and whilst I was in there (I'm so English now) I read another hilarious book, Laurie Notaro's I LOVE EVERYBODY. If you haven't read it, you must. I laughed till I cried about her grandma's obsession with the Lifetime movie channel and her review of Lynda Carter's “She Woke Up Pregnant,” not to mention her grandma calling “Touched by an Angel” “An Angel is Touching Me.”

3) They edited out the part where I said the word “boob” on Newsround so don't even think you're going to hear it Saturday when the show airs. Sorry.

So I felt like I deserved a lovely bubble bath and some Laurie Notaro because I went on a radio show called Big Toe today and when I walked into the studio an amazingly sweet little British schoolboy looked up at me with his big blue eyes and went, angrily, “YOU're not Meg Cabot. I saw Meg Cabot on Blue Peter, and SHE was really OLD.”

Yes. Oh, yes.

I suppose I DO look a bit haggard. Book tours are hard. Not only is it difficult adjusting to someone else's time zone, but there is the whole issue of hotel dry cleaning and running out of things to wear. I solved the latter problem with a quick trip to TopShop (my new favorite store) the other day. But I still get confused checking off the boxes on the hotel laundry tickets, since my hotel apparently believes “ladies” don't wear underwear–the only box for underwear is on the “men's garments” side of the ticket.

I know in England underwear is often referred to as “pants” (as I discovered to my dismay when I announced loudly to a group of people that women are not allowed to wear pants in the dining room at the Connaught Hotel. Not only did this prove not to be true, but it caused a great deal of excited sputtering at the idea of a hotel refusing to allow its female guests to wear underwear while dining there).

But there is no “pants” box to check off on the Ladies side of the laundry ticket.

It's true my underwear came back clean just the same, but I have to admit to having felt quite nervous about the whole thing.

And people seem to be having a particularly hard time on this tour pronouncing my last name. This has never happened to me before. Cabot is fairly straight forward as names go. You are all of course familiar with the poem

Welcome to dear old Boston
The home of beans and cod
Where the Lowells speak only to Cabots
And the Cabots speak only to God.

What could be easier to understand?

But I find myself constantly being asked, “Now, is it CaBOW? Or CaBOT?”

And then I have to say, “It's neither. It's Cabot, rhymes with rabbit.”

I have said this so many times, I have made up a little poem of my own. Here it is:

It's Meggin Cabot
Rhymes with Rabbit.
Not Meg Ca-bow–
Good heavens, No!
Not Meg Ca-BOT
Like a big ro-BOT!
Still a bit perplexed?
No need to be vexed!
Just leave it be
And call me Meg C.

Um, I never said it was a GOOD poem.

In other news, I had a LOVELY lunch today at Waterstones in Piccadilly (yes, lunch in a bookstore) with four girls–Anna, Gemma, Ploy, and Jasmine–who won the BLISS magazine short story contest. You can read their excellent stories–as well as one I contributed–in SHORT STORIES, a special book available in all Waterstones, written exclusively FOR Waterstones, with all of the proceeds from its sale going to raise money for the Dyslexia Institute. In addition to mine and the winners', there are great stories by writers like Sophie Kinsella and Cathy Hopkins in the book. If you go to the Waterstones at Piccadilly, you can pick up copies I autographed.

Tomorrow I'm off to Albert Hall for a special StoryQuest event (admission is free, so do come if you can) and then on to Milton Keynes for a booksigning, and then further on to the village of Cheltenham, where I'll once again be attending the Cheltenham Literary Festival on Saturday. Only this time, I hope to get out of eating toad in the hole with the schoolmaster there. Not that that wasn't lovely, but I am trying to stick to my sugar-free diet. Plus it was disturbing to have all those schoolboys staring at me as I ate.

No doubt this time they'll all be thinking, “SHE'S not Meg Cabot. I saw Meg Cabot on Blue Peter, and SHE was really OLD.”

Sigh. I think I'll take another bubble bath. Ta for now.

More later.

Much love,