I spent the afternoon considering the true nature of poetry and whether Diderot was right when he said that it ‘must have something in it that is barbaric, vast and wild’. After that I finished my ironing in front of Midsomer Murders and undertook a much-needed clear-out of my cheese compartment.

Chores all done, I sat down and waited for the magic to come. But no. Not a sniff of a poem.

The cat in the airing cupboard is fast becoming my pram in the hall.

Monday February 5th

Half dead and half alive, I dragged my limbs to work and continued on the Leamington PowerPoint. To break the impasse, I have decided, for now, to think less about the words and content, and focus on finding some powerful images to go into it. After all, a picture is worth a thousand words; perhaps even more in today’s currency.

Applying that logic, by the time I left work this evening, I had written the equivalent of three thousand words.

If only the same could be said of my poetry. I retrieved one of Dylan’s old cuddly toys from the wardrobe this evening: a moth-eaten, one-eyed, raggle-taggle indeterminate cloth thing called Henry. I placed it on my lap and waited, pen poised on paper. But unlike the sheets in the airing cupboard, this one remained untouched.

Tuesday February 6th

Toby Salt was full of himself as he swaggered into this evening’s Poetry Club in his crocs. Not only did he ‘just happen’ to have the latest issue of Well Versed in his bag to show the rest of the group, but he had some more news to share with us all.

‘I have a collection of my poetry coming out,’ he crowed, ‘with Shooting from the Hip.’

‘With who?’ I said.

‘It’s “with whom”,’ he retorted irritatingly. ‘Shooting from the Hip. They’re an artisan publishing house. I doubt you’ll have heard of them. They publish clever, cerebral books.’

‘How exciting for you!’ exclaimed Chandrima.

‘Well, Shooting from the Hip are very excited, at any rate. Django – he’s the owner – thinks it could be the book that will “bring poetry back into the mainstream”. They’re printing five hundred copies, as well as a special linocut and letterpress edition for collectors.’

I snorted involuntarily into my pint.

‘I’ve given it the provisional title of This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave,’ pronounced Toby Salt solemnly.

I snorted once more and this time beer rushed up my nose. Toby Salt looked at me as I spluttered and struggled for breath.

‘I’d recommend your work to Django,’ he said, ‘but he tends to look for more in a poem than the ability to rhyme a few words.’

He had a big stupid grin on his face all night. Not even Kaylee’s spoken-word piece about rioting, police brutality and racial violence in downtown Detroit was able to remove it.