"She lives the poetry she cannot write" – Wilde
One week in my own bed is quite enough thankyou: it was good to return to the normal, if-it’s-Tuesday-I-need-two-train-tickets-and-a-ballgown type of schedule which I am more used to. National Poetry Day creeps in from day to day, so there was a trip to London to talk about funding and to see my favourite city girl, Tilly.
Her parents are lovely people but they make me drink too much.
Back in Macclesfield, the good folk who run the Loop e-zine had a get-together (wine, things on sticks, interesting conversation). It was like a meeting of Culture Vultures Anonymous – so encouraging to know that it’s not just me who wants to improve the cultural landscape in Macc, and hopefully others felt the same too.
In Birmingham I met with the lovely folk who run its book festival and we had an entertaining session of planning for our Write Offs event on October 16th – a quiz with giggles, including poet Ian McMillan and other literary types. Ian is just launching his verse biography, Talking Myself Home but don’t buy the book – buy the audiobook so you can hear the Bard of Barnsley’s own Yorkshire tones dripping through you like butter through a crumpet.
Then on to Bristol, to see beloved and loved-up chum Shelley, and to check out the new man for whom she has fallen with such enthusiasm. In fact we didn’t see much of Tony as we did culture instead – visiting the wonderful city museum and seeing The Duchess (rather good). Like my London friends, Shelley and Tony are lovely people but they also make me drink too much. Funny that. Maybe this is why I missed my train twice this week….