"She lives the poetry she cannot write" – Wilde
Yes, it IS cold in the winter so stop asking us. On Saturday I woke to the strange stillness that tells you the canal is frozen. The world becomes very slippery. We listen out for penguin song at dawn. We lie awake at night, fearing the sound of polar bears padding towards us.
It’s been a damn Christmassy week, as you’ll see. It started with a fruitless drive around Derbyshire to various events which weren’t on. Already knackered after Curly Jane’s birthday (left), I went on to Leek to see a band called Vavoom in the Cock Inn. They were excellent – I am converted to rockabilly (but not to psychobilly, which makes you look like the man at the top of the page).
Then it was a whole lot of driving. To Ledbury for a meeting of the Poetry Festival board, and to gurgle at new board member Lisa Dyfy. To Cheltenham for meetings with a National Trust visionary about a project next year (apples, poetry); and with the startlingly energetic Anna Saunders who runs poetry events there. To Congleton for a Fourpenny Circus reunion and debrief in the Beartown Tap…
…then to Derby for meetings about the Illuminate festival, celebrating Florence Nightingale. From Derby to Manchester to pick up the sofa kindly donated for my office by the brilliant Tony Walsh – a fine poet and a very nice man indeed. Go and see him perform, it will exercise your brain and heart in equal measure.
Aching for Dick (no, don’t Google that, you’ll be startled) is coming along. Or rather it isn’t, but I am suddenly being asked for bits of work to do with laying the ground for my legendary 20-minute play. Eventually, of course, there will
I did ALL my Christmas shopping on Saturday in one fell and adrenaline-driven swoop. It wasn’t that bad… Meanwhile, the innocent little Hundred Days project continues and the man who is making something out of Lego every day is steaming ahead. But the Lego man has unaccountably not made models of flu-ridden boaters – he’s playing the Christmas card….