into two lines? Do not pity these syll-

ables, orphaned, adrift, left there to hang;

their beauty is in the way that they dang-

le.

That wasn’t working either. It rhymed well on paper but when I read it aloud, it sounded as if I had a speech impediment.

In the end I settled on some standard fare (poems about Jeremy Clarkson, University Challenge and semi-colons) and a new poem about watching television and recognising a familiar face from the past. The latter piece, at least, might give me an air of mystery and imply that I was someone who possessed an interesting and troubled history.

Tuesday April 3rd

Artist’s Impression

Channel-flicking on the television,

a sudden flicker of recognition,

and there you are, lighting up the screen.

You’ve not changed much, it seems.

The selfsame eyes of grey flint,

those touchpaper lips,

that shocking blaze

of hair. It’s as if the days

lit by time’s slow-burnt passage

are reduced to ashes.

An old flame, charcoaled

back to life by the controlled

hand of a police sketch artist.

I see you’re still up to your old tricks,

wanted, as you are, for questioning

in connection with

a spate of arson attacks

in the vicinity of Matlock Bath.

I must confess to having developed something of a crush on Liz. Purely in a literary sense, of course, not in any kind of crass sexual way. She has such delightful couplets. And lovely, languorous iambs. Terrific dimples, too.

Her poems were the highlight of the evening. She has a way of reading them that makes my insides feel like they’re in a tumble dryer. Her observations are funny and clever and razor-sharp. Against their light, those of Toby Salt were exposed as the pretentious nonsense they are – and my own poems as nothing more than schoolboy doggerel.

Courageously, I complimented Liz on her performance and offered her a pistachio nut when she sat down. She’d just opened her mouth to reply when Kaylee launched into a powerful lyrical diatribe about prostitution, sex slavery and venereal disease and further conversation became impossible.

By the time there was an opportunity to talk, Toby Salt had already smarmed in and was regaling Liz about his upcoming festival appearance at Saffron Walden and the special linocut edition of his forthcoming book, This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave. I found myself powerless to intervene, cornered as I was by Douglas, who proceeded to tell me about the major military engagements of the Second Boer War for what remained of the night.

We were the last to leave. Outside the pub, as we were about to head off in our separate directions, Douglas turned to me and grabbed hold of my sleeve.

‘Thank you, Brian,’ he said.

I was rather taken aback.

‘What for?’ I asked him. ‘What on earth do you mean?’