In an almost-certainly doomed attempt to get ahead of myself, I revisited my list of Christmas card beneficiaries. Each year, it shrinks a little. This year I am down to twelve and that includes all the members of Poetry Club.

I’m not sure whether I can stand any more recipients asking to be removed from my mailing list. Last year, there were three of them, one of whom seriously considered prosecuting me under breach of the 1998 Data Protection Act.

I may need to add DI Lansbury and Sergeant Tuck just to get my numbers back up.

Tuesday December 4th

Having Fun with a Clerihew

Archimedes of Syracuse

was keen to tell the town his news.

Naked through the streets he raced,

with clothes displaced.

Eureka! I have it! I know where Toby Salt is! At least I think I do.

I’d been flicking through old issues of Well Versed in search of some advice on how to write a clerihew when I realised that I knew what was wrong. But I needed Toby Salt’s postcard to figure it all out and that had gone into last week’s recycling collection.

Only it hadn’t, I remembered. On Friday morning, there’d been another knock on the window from the Man at Number 29, who’d pointed out it was a landfill day. I went rummaging in the recycling bag to find the bits and then pieced it all together. It was harder than a 500-piece Photo Jigsaw Puzzle of Gérard Depardieu in a Submersible and far less satisfying. But I finished it.

Whether Toby Salt was still alive was another matter.

One thing was clear: time was of the absolute essence.

I ran myself a bath and consulted tomorrow’s train timetable.

Wednesday December 5th

Why Poets Don’t Drive

Whether motorways, B roads, or backstreets,

there is a road for us all to explore.

Yet each leads – in the end – to the same place.

Yes, Karen, I know we need the A4.

There are some who live life in the fast lane

and some who stick in the middle, unsure.

Others live theirs in a roundabout way.

I know I did, Karen. We’ll have to go round it once more.

The road is – in essence – a metaphor.

We journey along it, trusting to luck,

being mindful of others upon it.

Don’t be silly, Karen, there isn’t a tr—

One of the drawbacks of being unable to drive is that it takes me a while to get anywhere. Unlike those heroes you encounter in the movies, I can’t just drop everything and hit the open road. Journeys need to be planned – and sometimes delayed – in order to secure a more competitive ticket price, as well as to write a poem and get the laundry up-to-date.

The 4.50 from Paddington arrived in Swansea just before eight o’clock. I checked into a B&B and left a message for DI Lansbury and Sergeant Tuck.