Poetry Book Fair
Off then at the crack of dawn, feeling sweaty and wretched up to Red Lion Square where the annual poetry book fair was being held. I stupidly left my phone in my study so missed calls and so on.
Wheeling a case heavy with cards and stuff to give away on the Telltale stand. Not feeling well, but I managed to enjoy the day. Said hello to a few people I know, and have nice chats with Sarah Barnsley and Siegfried Baber and Robin -- made it so much better being in a gang. Said hello to some old acquaintances such as Tamar Yoseloff, and Nancy Mattson, even Dinah Livingstone, who did not remember me but (naturally) remembered my old palTim Gallagher, and lots of people I vaguely recognised.
Also chats with people on their stands, one told me I looked like a radio personality. Later he came up to Siegfried and I grabbing a sandwich in the park, and told us he had a head injury. Nice friendly guy. But the world of English poetry in London is a strange aquarium. It made me think of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. People there in search of books full of magic, and most of them making away with books describing what magic might be like if it existed. I did my best to mask these thought crimes and bought some books, including one from a translator of Victor Hugo who had just been at the Guernsey Lit Fest.
Home on the bus with the case to Victoria. Three ladies in their seventies sitting in front of me. One describing taking her mother in law to DH Evans said, 'I couldn't find much in there for her, not at 95 with a dowager's hump'. Pure Alan Bennett.
Home on the train, a nice evening in with Lorraine and Betty home for the first time in a while. Caught a taxi in a fractious queue at Brighton station. The taxi driver said the homeless folks who sit on Queens Road have all been moved on as the Labour Party conference has started.
Tired and very happy to be home.
Wheeling a case heavy with cards and stuff to give away on the Telltale stand. Not feeling well, but I managed to enjoy the day. Said hello to a few people I know, and have nice chats with Sarah Barnsley and Siegfried Baber and Robin -- made it so much better being in a gang. Said hello to some old acquaintances such as Tamar Yoseloff, and Nancy Mattson, even Dinah Livingstone, who did not remember me but (naturally) remembered my old palTim Gallagher, and lots of people I vaguely recognised.
Also chats with people on their stands, one told me I looked like a radio personality. Later he came up to Siegfried and I grabbing a sandwich in the park, and told us he had a head injury. Nice friendly guy. But the world of English poetry in London is a strange aquarium. It made me think of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. People there in search of books full of magic, and most of them making away with books describing what magic might be like if it existed. I did my best to mask these thought crimes and bought some books, including one from a translator of Victor Hugo who had just been at the Guernsey Lit Fest.
Home on the bus with the case to Victoria. Three ladies in their seventies sitting in front of me. One describing taking her mother in law to DH Evans said, 'I couldn't find much in there for her, not at 95 with a dowager's hump'. Pure Alan Bennett.
Home on the train, a nice evening in with Lorraine and Betty home for the first time in a while. Caught a taxi in a fractious queue at Brighton station. The taxi driver said the homeless folks who sit on Queens Road have all been moved on as the Labour Party conference has started.
Tired and very happy to be home.
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