This has certainly been a year of many first experiences: first book, first book tour, first time, (hopefully not last), inside Bob Dylan’s house and, just yesterday, the interesting, if somewhat distressing moment when I first ran my IPhone through a mixed fabrics cycle in the washing machine. All experiences have been valid and some more pleasant than others. However, over the weekend I encountered one of the oddest first experiences of the year so far.

Last November whilst visiting Portland I attended a showcase of writers featured in McSweeney’s Literary Journal. This took place in Powell’s City of Books; a book store so magical, so impossible to leave that most of the city’s writers are permanently decamped in its coffee shop. It was not the best reading I’ve ever been party to, (neither was it the worst). One guy played acoustic guitar whilst reading a story about a…