Open mic

A bit out of sorts this morning, for no discernible reason. Got up early again, thanks to the atrocious Calliope whose mission since we have returned from Scotland seems to be to wake me up early each morning, and worked at the poetry manuscript, while sipping smoked Japanese green tea. 

A nice breakfast with Lorraine, and then she made off to Ashford for the day. I did a few chores, and had a chat with Mum arranging a day next week to see her and Mas. 

Then more writing, followed by a healthy lunch watching a soul singer called Lady Wray that Toby told me about, on YouTube. 

Then a longish walk down the hill and a by the sea and back through Seaford. Loving the lichen yellow roofs against the blue of the sky. Also snapped a spitfire doing a roll over the town. Listening to a new audiobook, called The Other Pandemic -- How QAnon Contaminated the World as I mooched. A decent look at the unhinged conspiracy theories which have infected world politics. 

In the evening I went to the Boot, meeting Steve there who accompanied me to The Welly, where the Seahaven poets had an open mic. Variable, as these things often are, some people giving only their first or second public readings. A lively featured performer in the spoken word tradition. I read four poems too -- and these went down very well. I was pleased as there is nothing like reading to an indifferent audience to test a poem's roadworthiness.  I read three unrhymed sonnets about men who had fallen early. Mark, who I lived with when at university, Tim who died of AIDs in the nineties, and I read one about Glen, which ambushed Steve and had him in tears, plus a more optimistic one. 

Steve and I found ourselves sitting on a table with a guy called John, who we both really liked. We arranged to meet him at the Cinque Ports afterwards. The pub buzzy and fun, and we sat on the table next to assorted mature musicians and theatre people, who it turned out John knew. Lots of chats with these folks. 

Back to Lorraine, and went happily to bed.

Below, loving the yellow roofs of Seaford, and a Spitfire performing manoeuvres over town.