So, after one night of snow over the weekend and a wreckless bus driver skidding his way all the way home, I'm still here.
It was great to be back at Rum Punch Tuesday night after their 6-month hiatus (although, like everything else, seemingly, it's moved to Shoreditch). A good night in all, complete with one poet pretty much propositioning the barman from the mic ("I want that 90% Madagascan chocolate type of guy", she says, pouting), one comedian who decided he felt too uncomfortable to continue, following a joke that was, well, uncomfortable, another poet who delivered a poem entitled Dalston, about being love-wrecked in Penge, during which one woman jumped from her seat, screaming, "That's my ends! That's my ends! ______ Road! Yes, yes!". And who said poetry nights are uneventful? I grabbed the mic towards the end and did a new-ish poem which I hope chimed with the second comedian, who shared some wicked fatherly advice that had a lot of people in stitches.
Poetry-wise, things seem to be going well. I was chuffed to get a shiny certificate for "Best Performance by a London Poet" the other day and I'm working on a couple of projects which should come to light over the next couple of months. I've also got a couple of gigs next week, starting on Sunday with Jazz Verse Jukebox at Ronnie Scott's and then Brixton Library. Love is in the air, apparently (just in case you haven't been outside and seen the tons of places selling heart-shaped bars of soap and the coffee shops with "Valentine's Menus". Puleeezz!) and I'll be dusting off some of my finest bars on love and desire, in between my more usual stuff.
I haven't been writing much in the way of new poetry in the last couple of weeks, but I do seem to be making serious headway on the novel, partly thanks to a breakthrough aided by a book recommend and a serious chill pill. However, it means I've had less time for other things, always the one big let down of being absorbed in writing. This thing will write itself, if I allow it to, but I have to trust the story more than my own instincts which are telling me to steer clear of certain themes. Does that sound cryptic? I hope not. All I mean is I see certain eyes rolling if I say it's going to have a significant section on gangs, more eyes rolling when I mention the supernatural and religious elements... and let alone the sex part, which I haven't come to yet ("Why you can't just write a nice book, eeh?")
Anyway, it's late... signing off abruptly