To the Haymarket Hotel, and a room underground which was next to a swimming pool and might just as well have been Blofeld's lair. I think there were sharks in that pool, and they certainly had lasers on their heads. The reason for the dinner was to celebrate the American writer Maggie Stiefvater, who is younger than me and has written many successful books about evil fairies, and werewolves, amongst other things. They've sold a quarter of a million. That's a quarter of a million. Yes indeed. Her new book, The Scorpio Races, is out now. Dinner was excellent - champagne flowed as fast as the waterfall feature in the swimming pool; I had figs of tender puckishness, although my chicken was as dry as the unmoving eyes of a statue. (You can see I am making a bid to be A A Gill. Or Giles Coren. Or Miles Jupp. Maybe the latter would be nice.) Maggie Stiefvater was charming and funny and I think I am a little bit in love with her (but she is married and has children). Hurrah for Scholastic, and hurrah for Maggie!