I flicked through the rest of the magazine. There was an article on Toby Salt’s disappearance on pages 2 and 3. Pages 6 and 7 were given over to a review of This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave. It got five stars. On pages 13–15 was a transcript of a lecture given by Toby Salt earlier in the year entitled ‘Beauty and Didacticism in 1950s Hungarian Poetry’ and on page 24 there was a feature on his new role as Poet-in-Residence for the BBC. This article, in turn, referenced page 31, where a new Toby Salt poem was displayed, commemorating his appointment.

It didn’t seem fair somehow. Not when I would have given my right arm – and that’s my poetry arm – for a mere mention in a footnote.

Saturday October 20th

Poem for World Sloth Day

He’s snoring as he dangles

from his special branch

by his toes, hanging loose:

he’s tree-hugging and nap-taking,

a long-limbed recluse.

It is World Sloth Day, according to Twitter. Dylan and I celebrated the occasion by watching nature documentaries whilst working on our sloth mindset. Not once did he pester me to go out for a walk or to help with his revision. It would seem that my son is finally doing some growing up.

And so we sprawled on the sofa all afternoon, dunking custard creams into mugs of hot tea, as scenes unfolded involving very different kinds of life on Earth: an iguana pursued across rocks by sinister racer snakes; an Emperor penguin, protecting his egg through the long, bitter winter; and a sloth itself, clinging to his branch as if his very life depended on it.

Sunday October 21st

Poem for World Sleuth Day

Exploring all the angles,

he’s from Special Branch

and his tie’s hanging loose:

he keeps slogging, it’s back-breaking,

this long skim for clues.

It is World Sleuth Day, according to me.

For the modern detective, sleuthing is no longer about dusting for dabs, finding toothpicks in hedges and acting on hunches. That’s old-school. Nowadays, it’s surfing the net for potential clues while trying not to get too distracted by adverts on how to remove stubborn stains from your shed floor.

Toby Salt’s disappearance is getting to be big news: there are features in all the major newspapers. It is widely conjectured that Toby Salt has snuffed it, most likely in suspicious circumstances. Fuelling this view was DI Lansbury:

‘There is one particular line of questioning we are pursuing vigorously,’ he was quoted as saying. ‘A certain gentleman is helping us with our enquiries.’

And a certain diary is helping them, too, no doubt.

Annoyingly, most of the articles go on to mention how well This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave is selling. This strikes me as ghoulish, the way people are rubbernecking at his words like that, while his head lies smashed on the steering wheel at the crash scene that is his poetry collection.

I mean that metaphorically, of course.