I considered its merits: it keeps its options open; it’s multi-faith; it could be extended to include other scenarios without too much difficulty; it’s designed to reach the broadest audience possible. But I couldn’t help thinking that once the multiple-choice answers have been decided, there’s not a whole lot here. Also, is it too impersonal? Might it be perceived as opportunistic?

No, I wasn’t happy with it, I decided. I’d just have to have another go at it tomorrow.

Tuesday August 7th

Beat Poets

Some say it’s for their own good

but I don’t think you should.

Some say I threw the first punch. Some say I threw the only punch. Some say it was all academic anyway as poets aren’t very good at punching and that’s why I missed and grazed my hand on the bench behind him.

It was Toby Salt’s comments about Douglas that did it. But I was already in an agitated state of mind; I’d spent the whole day wrestling with death but the words still weren’t falling as I’d hoped. By the time I turned up at Poetry Club, I was in a foul mood.

Toby Salt had already told us that this was probably going to be his last Poetry Club.

‘I’ve moved on, you see,’ he said. ‘Important things are happening and I’m not sure I can commit any more to this.’ He gestured disparagingly at the shabby back room.

Chandrima looked crestfallen. Mary irritated. Kaylee sullen. Liz cross. I felt my mood lifting.

‘It has a certain charm, of course,’ he went on, ‘but it’s all rather small-town stuff whereas I now operate on, shall we say, a different plane.’

‘A different plane,’ repeated Chandrima dejectedly.

‘Well, yes. You know, with the radio and TV, the broadsheets, the festivals and competitions. And my poems operate at something of a loftier altitude to the ones here. You must realise that.’

‘A loftier attitude,’ said Kaylee, sulkily.

‘Take Brian with his funny little poems about goodness knows what! They’re hardly going to win any prizes, are they?!’

‘Prizes,’ repeated Liz, disdainfully.

My irritation had begun to return.

‘The scansion! Those rhymes! He’d struggle getting those printed on greeting cards!’

‘Greeting cards,’ repeated me, properly riled now.

‘It’s not just Brian. I mean, take Douglas. How he wasted not just my time – but yours – with his ridiculous hoplophiliac ramblings on military conflicts through history. There was a man without a single poetic bone in his body, one far more interested in fighting and viol—’