"She lives the poetry she cannot write" – Wilde
My whip has arrived. I’m in the habit of opening my mail in the chandlery office when I pick it up, so there were raised eyebrows over the bacon butties this morning. It’s for Fourpenny Circus, obviously – what is a ringmistress without her whip? I didn’t take it to our costume fitting in Lancaster, but wardrobe mistress Ann is doing a stunning job with the costumes….
It was a geographically challenging week: two days of working on National Poetry Day, a final Wilmslow workshop, two days of rehearsals at Ellesmere Port – and that fitting in Lancaster. It seemed like a lot of time on the road, but always with a day of rewarding work at the end of the journey.
Then came a weekend that took me first to Cumbria for a workshop with Robert Crawford, then to London. In Cumbria I called in on new friend Maddy to see if she likes the look of me any better than last time – she steeled herself, and we got on famously this time.
In London, American poet Martín Espada was in town, and had no-one to play with. It seemed only courteous to go and drag him around the British Museum before his jetlag wore off – and it’s never a hardship to step into the Great Court, the finest built space in Britain.
If you’re in London on Tuesday, go and see Martín at the Southbank Centre where he’ll be delivering his passionate and often political poetry.
Meanwhile my small niece is still a comic genius. ‘How old are you, Lula?’ my brother asks. ‘Fifty nine,’ she replies. To the best of our knowledge she is actually three, but she remains adamant. It’s Benjamin Button all over again. Only better, obviously.