A morning poem

Woke up shortly after six this morning with a poem in my head, and simply got up and wrote it. An absolute rarity when something arrives fully formed.  It's working title is 'My notebook has black pages' and is a bit wild and uninhibited in a Dylan Thomasish way I suppose, having yesterday watched a drama about him.  I had written it before 8:30am and, having completed it, felt as if my day's work was done before it had even started.

Lots of work to be done, however, and I am trying to get my social media presence up to scratch and am working on twitter at the moment. Looking too at the pictures that were done by Alex, my grandfather. Posted about those here. I worked in the Emporium Theatre on London Road, and was periodically barged by members of a moot of middle class mummies with their offspring.  Also there was a life class with people drawing, quite a lively place.

Sonya had been while I was away, and I had left a yellow smiley post it note on our new vacuum cleaner (as she had recommended this brand). A friendly message when I got home, having just missing her.

Almost finished The Sound and the Fury now, this afternoon, when I made an effort to relax.  Lorraine returned late from the last of her Governor meetings and an arduous day involving ofsted. I fed her, and I slipped off to meet Anton in the Shakey's Head for a quiet pint or two at the end of the day. Anton astonishingly talking about poetry for a bit.  Lorraine watching noir-ish dramas when I got home, and needed her feet rubbing.

Below the life class scene at the Emporium.

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