An unreal few days, seeming to have no function except to precede our holiday – despite the fact that other, overshadowed things have happened. Tonight, in fact, there was a private view by InPrint and a few others at the Playhouse for the Fringe. Four of us read poems – Caroline first, then me, then Lisa, then Rupert. Quite brief – we probably could have read more. The smallish room was reasonably full with the usual suspects – friends of the artists / poets. Very enjoyable, though – Annette and Mike also came.

I sent out a last-minute invitational e-mail to a few friends, and John and Jean Easton turned up, which was very good of them. The picture is of John and the PVM: he was selected for the picture because of his family link, tenuous though it is. My Uncle Ted is also his Uncle Ted – we discovered this at Ted’s funeral. He was the husband of my mother’s sister, and the brother of John’s mother, I believe.

Off to Heathrow tomorrow. I’m feeling below par – running a slight temperature today which I think was sinus-related. Dot has just started sneezing. Aargh!

One of the poems I read tonight:

PERFECT TEARS

Like snowflakes,
all of your tears
were different

falling down your fine face
plunging to the rocks
on which our love crumbled
and where nothing grew

If your tears had not been constructed
so carefully
I would have dried them for you

As it was, being perfect,
they clearly
could not be touched