’Cos everybody yurts. Take comfort in king-size beds.

Everybody yurts.

No frozen hands. Oh no. No more frozen hands.

From sheep’s wool, it’s wove.

Oh, oh, oh, wood-burning stove.

If you think you may not survive, and your tent is not that strong,

When you think you’ve had too much of this life to hang on.

Well, when your body hurts most times,

As you try to rise . . .

Everybody yurts sometimes.

And everybody yurts sometimes.

The cold’s gone, cold’s gone.

Darren was strangely irritable today and barely had a civil word to say to me. I suspect this may be due to the heavy cold he seems to be coming down with. But we hung in there as best we could, sticking around for the headline act, an R.E.M. tribute band called Are.We.Them?

They were clearly not. Sophie and I had seen the genuine article all those years ago. Only a few hazy images of their performance have stayed with me: Peter Buck with an electric mandolin; Michael Stipe bizarrely wearing a football shirt; a cover played in tribute to Kurt Cobain. But I remember everything else about that night: Sophie in her denim jacket and DMs; the way she jumped up and down in excitement as they walked on stage; the look of wonder on her face as she watched the day’s sun sink slowly behind the stadium; the journey back, with Sophie’s head in my lap as she slept; and the reflection in the bus window of me, smiling back at myself, a shiny, happy person.

Monday July 30th

Breaking News

The news seems broken now,

nearly every day.

I shall gather up its pieces

and throw it all away.

Breaking news: I am broke.

My front door was almost wedged shut by the stack of mail that greeted me on my return. Amongst the reminders of unpaid bills for books, hotel bills, shed furnishings and luxury yurt accommodation was a bank statement coloured in red.

My redundancy money has gone and my overdraft limit is exhausted. There remains £10,000 in the account for the ‘Poets on the Western Front’ trip but that, of course, is untouchable. I need money – and quickly – before the mortgage payments and utility bills drag me further under.

Incredibly, the sun has emerged from all this rain; it shines down and gently mocks me.

Tuesday July 31st

The Met Office is forecasting a heatwave. I am in search of a brainwave. I have been attempting to identify possible solutions which might alleviate my financial difficulties. I didn’t get very far. I looked at the list I’d written:

1. Sell all my books.
2. Hire out my stupid, useless writer’s shed for garden parties.
3. Get a proper job again.
4. Earn money from writing.