Next, it was the turn of Douglas, who launched into a ballad concerning rival sea captains at the Battle of Lepanto of 1571. This he attempted to bring to life with a sequence of nautical actions and sound effects. Twenty minutes in, and with no end in sight, we were able to coax him to sit down with a double rum and Coke, during a particularly heavy spell of cannonade.

Chandrima captivated us with a poem about a doomed love affair between a wealthy Delhi merchant prince and a serving-girl, followed by a brief meditation on the movements of the moon. And then, in a sudden change of pace and tone, Kaylee treated us to a very impassioned spoken-word piece about urban decay, rape and abortion, which made us all rather quiet and reflective for a while.

I did my best to lighten the mood with a few poems about Piers Morgan, bus journeys and the seasonal migration of ice-cream vans. As ever, I could sense Toby Salt sneering at me from his seat in the corner and trying to distract the others in the middle of my usual hesitant, stumbling performance.

Toby Salt is very dismissive of my work. He claims it lacks gravitas and soul.

‘As Carl Sandberg once said,’ he declared pompously at our last meeting, ‘“poetry should be an echo, asking a shadow to dance”.’ Three years of studying Creative Writing at Bath Spa University and he thinks he knows it all.

Toby Salt is particularly dismissive of my rhyming schemes and poorly constructed metre. His modus operandi is free verse. However, I like to think that I treat ALL poets with equal respect, whatever their literary shortcomings, and so I sat quietly through all four of his frankly impenetrable poems, flicking empty pistachio shells into a pot.

After we’d all sat down, Mary took the opportunity to remind us about our commitment to finding new members for the year ahead. There used to be ten of us but numbers have dwindled in recent times. Not even poetry is immune from the age of austerity.

‘So then, how’s the recruitment drive coming on?’ she asked. ‘Any leads, anyone?’

I stared intently at my pint glass. I could sense others doing the same. Toby Salt broke the silence.

‘Believe me, I really wish I could help. It’s not as if I don’t know a lot of poets.’

The eyes of my fellow club members began to roll.

‘Actually, I know someone who may be interested so how about you stop doing us down for a change and casting all these nasturtiums,’ said Kaylee, glaring at Toby Salt.

Good old Kaylee! You could always tell when she was worked up about something as the contents of her lexical filing cabinet would become all muddled up.