Порви все портреты, rage, my comrades / place the telephone back upon its cradle / I spent these years waiting for you / like the crocodile who basks / inside the handbag / fashioned from its own hide! / The walls are crumbling now / Even Mme. Vissilovich knows that / She with her head full of wool / and her hands that are never still / Hush! царские солдаты идут / It is safe here / inside the past / where the future cannot find fault / Safe behind this barricade / of paper/ Watch how it burns! / This paper / These walls that crumble / The future that turns in / upon itself / And the bear who weeps / his tears of iron.

What on earth does all this mean? Even the boffins at Bletchley Park would be baffled. Toby Salt’s prize is a hamper from Fortnum and Mason. I hope he chokes on his salted caramel Florentines. He will be even more insufferable than usual at Poetry Club tomorrow. Beautiful, funny, perfidious Liz will be there, too. I don’t think I’ll go.

Tuesday July 10th

I went. I was persuaded by a news item this morning which suggests that people who read and listen to poetry are likely to live longer than those who don’t. Poetry reduces stress levels, researchers claimed; its rhythms and cadences alleviate high blood pressure. My own experience seemed to contradict this but I may be the exception that proves the rule. In the absence of any other discernible lifestyle choices regarding healthy living, I decided to brave it.

Fortunately, Toby Salt wasn’t there. He was being interviewed on the radio. I hope the listeners were warned that exposure to his poetry may result in dizziness, diarrhoea and vomiting. In his absence, he’d given Mary some invitations to hand out for the launch of his This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave next month. I crumpled mine up in my cardigan pocket.

Liz and I didn’t exchange a single word all evening. I thought her poems lacked their usual fizz and heady allure. I tossed off a light-hearted piece about the pain of betrayal and rejection, but my heart wasn’t really in it either.

After we’d all had our turn, we sat down to discuss arrangements for the Poets on the Western Front trip, which is now only three months away. Mary took the chair.

‘First up, finances,’ she said. ‘Brian, how much have we raised?’

I consulted my notebook. ‘We now have £9,855.27 in the bank.’

Kaylee whistled. ‘That’s ten grand, to all intensive purposes,’ she said, impressed.

‘Yes, but don’t forget that nearly half of that is ring-fenced for Dr Miller and his expenses,’ I said.

‘And have you been in touch with him to finalise the itinerary?’ Mary asked.