"She lives the poetry she cannot write" – Wilde
I’ve been getting a teensy bit stressed, dear readers – working long days and actively avoiding exercise. Last weekend, when I nearly bludgeoned to death the lad who hadn’t delivered my coal (again), I realised that I need to chill out a bit. So I took action – oh yes. I went for a trudge-and-bounce on the hilly streets of Macclesfield, then settled on the sofa with Herodotus – ‘Polichne, with the help of his Lesbians, got the better of the rest of the Chians, weakened as they were by the sea battle’ etc.
Not as gripping as the Beano, but pretty spicy after the Qu’ran. Not only have I learned much about the Lesbians, but after I innocently used the phrase ‘tromboning’ in a poem, a friend led me to this definition of it which made me feel quite prim.
In theatre world we are treated as the ‘remedial stagecraft’ class. We aren’t actors by any means, but not the usual sort of poet either; we are becoming a sort of poetic tadpole.
Being but a skip and a fart away from friends Jamie, Kate and new girl Maddy, I went to say hello. Unfortunately Maddy, a charming little pink-faced person of the sort that appears in picture books, HATED me and screamed like a burglar alarm every time I went near her…. Maybe she’ll get used to me before she goes to university.
Saturday night brought Steve Rooney to the Big Blue open mike in Derby, and I went with splendid chums Hannah and Heather to cheer him on.
I have accidentally given up drinking for Lent, so I will raise a virtual glass in memory of Laurie, a friend and boater who died this week. Laurie was one of the first heart transplant patients, and lived far longer than he had any right to, by sheer bloody-mindedness. He had a wicked laugh and got his money’s worth out of that heart in every sense. The marina flag is flying at half mast.