Event at Waterstones Piccadilly with Caroline Lawrence, Katherine Rundell, Anthony McGowan and Philip Womack

I'm doing an event with the excellent authors Caroline Lawrence, Katherine Rundell and Anthony McGowan, and Waterstones Piccadilly on the 1st June at 6.30pm. It's free, but do RSVP to piccadilly@waterstones.com.

The Coincidence Engine by Sam Leith: Party

The literary great and good collected in Daunts Marylebone last night for the launch of Sam Leith (pictured)'s debut novel, The Continuum Transponder. I mean The Coincidence Engine. Attended by journos, hacks, a bearded Sebastian Faulks, and sundry other types wot have written books and so on (including Amanda Craig, Charles Cumming (so tall!), Louise Doughty, Lynn Barber and every literary editor the world has ever seen) the party went along rather swishingly. Sam's editor, Michael Fishwick, gave a speech in which he demonstrated how the idea for the book had come up over a lunch (those were the good old days); the book itself is about a man who invents a machine that can manipulate probability. If you had chained all the people in the room to typewriters for eternity I wonder what we would have produced? Sam's book has been chosen as a Waterstones Eleven debut, which is marvellous news. His new baby is also scheduled to be born on the same day as his book. I suggest 'Coincidenta' if a girl, 'Douglas' (after Adams / Coupland) if a boy. Congratulations to Mr Leith, his book, and his new family member.

A trailer for the book (dread practice, but now seemingly necessary) is below.

The Memory Cage by Ruth Eastham: Launch Party

Luckily a few publishers seem still to be throwing launch parties - and my first one of the year (and it has been a while - 'you look thin, Philip, have you not been to a launch recently?' said someone as I entered) was Scholastic's shindig in Theobald's (pronounced Tibbaults) Road to celebrate the lift-off of Ruth Eastham's Memory Cage, a debut novel about the friendship between a boy and his grandfather who has Alzheimer's, which has been shortlisted for the Waterstone's Prize. The author, an elegant lady from Preston, gave a charmingly sweet speech, as did the new editorial director of the house; I ate enormous amounts of canapes (including what I think was a sort of apple and walnut pancake, but I'm not entirely sure). There were lots of kebabs, which proved very difficult to dip into the dip provided (the question of the evening was, did you push the meat down the stick with your fingers so that it was more easily dunked, thereby risking inelegancy, or did you leave it as it was); that didn't stop me, however. I look forward to reading the Memory Cage, which looks set to be one of the most interesting debuts of the year, and also to a selection of similarly inventive canapes.

Literary Review Grand Poetry Prize

And so today brought with it oddly mild weather, presumably because the gods - or at least the Muses - were feeling beneficial towards Literary Review, which, today, held its 997th (or something like that) Grand Poetry Prize. This award, begun by Auberon Waugh, was intended to promote the writing of verse that 'rhymed, scanned and made sense'. Much harder to do than you would think... Fitzroy Square (I walked past Roger Fry's house as the leaves blew redly around my feet) was the locus for the lunch. Writers descended from all four corners of the earth - or, at least, London and its environs. There was V S Naipaul, grandly seated with his wife Nadira; there was Alexander Waugh playing the piano; there was biographer Jane Ridley in the best red velvet coat I have ever seen. Editor Nancy Sladek gave a toast to Auberon Waugh and the late Beryl Bainbridge (always a favourite guest at the lunch). The room filled with writers and assorted literary types; wine and champagne flowed. Our food arrived: I don't know what it is about potatoes recently (see earlier post about the Oriel Gaudy), but our main course came with some imperially purple ones. The three courses were interspersed with more wine - and light opera, including a song from a musical written by Alexander Waugh called Bon Voyage. The prize (sponsored, with generosity, by the Mail on Sunday) was given by Eileen Atkins, who elegantly read out the winning poem (about cities) by Iain Colley, who accepted it saying: 'I had a whole speech prepared which was studded with witticisms and would comment upon the state of literature'. But he was so blown away by Dame Eileen that he was lost for words.

The lunch continued till four, when I wandered (somewhat erratically) down Piccadilly towards St James'. I popped into the Waterstones', where the excellent children's section (recently remodelled) kindly asked me to sign a couple of copies of The Liberators. Not that most people were interested, though: there was a queue forming for Keith Richards - and he's not arriving till 5pm on Wednesday.

The Booktrust Teenage Prize

Once a year, in November, at the top of the Penguin building on the Strand, Booktrust award their Teenage Prize for fiction. It's where Churchill used to go, apparently, to view the damage done to London after a bomb attack; although the only damage that might possibly be done these days is by champagne glasses or cocktail sticks falling down to the street below. I've been going to the prize for several years now: it's one of my favourite events in the literary calendar. Always, it seems, it's a beautiful day. You can see the Embankment down below, lined with flaming trees; inside is champagne, merriment - and, of course, lots of people in children's publishing. There was a very strong shortlist this year, including Charlie Higson (for The Enemy) and Zizou Corder (for Halo); but the winner was Unhooking the Moon by Gregory Hughes. I haven't read it yet, but I shall certainly look out for it.

I chatted to Mr Higson, although this time we did not cross swords about the role of celebrities in writing; I spoke to the charming Mary Hoffman, who has written over ninety children's books and still looks to be going strong; and I met the organiser of the Bath Children's Literary Festival. I left at two, quite happily filled with champagne and canapes, to snooze - I mean, of course, work very hard - in an armchair in the London Library until my duties took me elsewhere - to Kensington, in fact, where I wandered into the Waterstones just before Malorie Blackman arrived to do a book signing. Rather sweetly, they asked me to sign a few books too. So all in all, a brilliantly bookish start to what will be a brilliantly bookish week.