In spite of all this, I was feeling rather cheerful; Kaylee’s new Poetry Club recruit had turned up after all. Liz was smart, funny and (dear diary, I cannot lie) not unattractive; at least sixty per cent of Shakespeare’s sonnets could have been written about her. What’s more, she fitted in instantly. It was as if Liz had been here with us all along but only now had we truly noticed her, like the discovery of a found poem which suddenly reveals the beauty that lies hidden beneath the humdrum of the everyday.

As she sat down from reciting a witty yet moving poem concerning the discovery of a well-thumbed, annotated copy of The Joy of Sex in a second-hand bookshop, it dawned on me that it really has been quite some time since our membership has swollen.

I carried my good mood home with me. The cat must have sensed that – like Germany in 1989 – the moment had come for reunification. I had just sat down on the sofa when she jumped up and re-homed herself in my lap. I was just thinking back to Liz’s performance earlier when the shadow of Toby Salt fell over me once more. How dare he criticise my poems! I’d write him a poem for next Poetry Club to show how difficult it is to make words rhyme.

Hampered by the cat, I found the words began to flow once more . . .

To make poems rhyme can sometimes be tough:

words may appear to be from the same bough,

yet each line’s ending sounds different, though,

best hidden behind a hiccough or cough.

Was this upsetting to Byron or Yeats?

Dickinson or Wordsworth? Larkin or Keats?

Did they see these words as auditory threats?

Could they write their lines without caveats?

But does it matter when all’s said and done

if you read this as scone when I meant scone?

It’s hardly a crime. There’s no need to atone;

it’s all baloney to an abalone.

Don’t mumble these endings into your beard.

This poem should be seen, rather than heard.

Wednesday February 7th

I have crash-landed on a distant planet. It is full of bright, vivid colours, spectacular landscapes and breathtaking sunsets. Its inhabitants, who are both beautiful and courteous, and wear immaculate teeth, tell me that it is called Planet Stock Photography. They smile broadly at me as I insert them into the PowerPoint.

Back home, I find myself clearing up several of Marvin’s disposable kidney dishes from my front garden. Earth seems so shoddy in comparison: why do we put up with it?

Thursday February 8th

I’d forgotten all about parents’ evening.

Those hours on Planet Stock Photography yesterday must have confused my brain and distracted me from my real-world responsibilities. If only I had some kind of book to write these things down in: a planner, perhaps, or a diary.