For these Crusaders of Correctness,

beloved Guardians of Grammar,

hunt down blunders big and small

upon which to wield their hammer.

They hold no fear that in doing so,

they will deprive the thing of life:

for it does not matter what it says,

what’s important is that it’s right.

Ten people have already pointed out to me that Fowler’s Modern English was first published in 1926 but that didn’t rhyme so the joke is on them really.

Monday May 7th

This Bank Holiday weekend has had a face on it like a wet Bank Holiday weekend. In theory, these should be the perfect conditions in which to tackle the Problem of the Dripping Tap in the Downstairs Bathroom but instead, I worked on a poem for Poetry Club. It picks up some of the themes of Gabriel García Márquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera and represents what future scholars of English literature may well describe as ‘a significant departure from Bilston’s previous work, signalling a new maturity as this promising – but often wayward – poet finally comes of age’.

Tuesday May 8th

So much for new maturity. Future scholars of English literature will be giggling in their twenty-fifth-century senior common rooms.

The evening had started promisingly enough. Chandrima had got us underway in her characteristically serene fashion as she ruminated on the restorative power of the peace lily before Kaylee took us in a different direction with a powerful spoken-word piece concerning institutionalised rape in an Alabaman women’s prison.

Douglas followed with what he claimed to be a ‘found poem’ concerning the Battle of Stalingrad, but which I’m pretty sure was just a lengthy extract from Antony Beevor. Mary then read a very moving poem concerning her fifth husband’s dementia. As she sat down, Kaylee grasped Mary’s hand in sympathy; her grandad had suffered from ‘Old-Timer’s Disease’, she said.

We were then ‘treated’ by Toby Salt to a new experimental piece based on a re-reading of an Ezra Pound canto that he’d been commissioned to write for Radio 4, presumably as filler for some ungodly-houred early morning programme. And then it was time for Liz. As ever, she filled my metaphorical basket; this time with a clever critique of contemporary consumerism in a poetic exploration of sex and shopping entitled ‘Unidentified Item in My Bagging Area’.

I was the last to go. It was only when I reached into the pocket of my favourite cardigan that I realised I wasn’t wearing my favourite cardigan, nor indeed did I have the love poem that was in its pocket. Mildly panicked, I reached for my phone. I was pretty sure there was a near-final version on it.

I announced the title – ‘Love in the Time of Cauliflower’ – and, with a deep breath, set about it:

‘Please marrow me, my beloved sweetcorn,

Lettuce beetroot to our hearts of romaine.

We must follow the courgette of our convictions