Here's the tender coming.
I think that, following this one, I’m going to start writing an entry daily for the foreseeable future. Detailing the events of a week or two at once is quite time-consuming (not to mention infuriating when Internet Explorer crashes and makes you lose half of what you just wrote, as it just did!) and updating nightly would make me more comfortable at a time when I feel every spare few hours could be spent on more ‘productive’ pursuits. Back to the headings for now then... Most of this up to the Unthanks review won’t feel quite as accurate or enjoyable to write as it was on the first try:
Tuesday 13th - Sunday 18th October
In the morning, I met George for our first meeting since I finally became able to write some poems for him (the ones that have appeared in an earlier entry). He seemed largely appreciative of my work but also had some inevitable criticism, some of which I disagreed with; considering George is a long published and award-winning poet, it would obviously be unwise of me not to at least take his views into consideration. Nevertheless, I appreciated the dilemma - whether I eventually take his advice in each situation, ignore it or attempt to reach a compromise, it will be interesting to explore that tension in my commentary and evaluate my decision.
Once we had finished, I went for some quick lunch in the new Café Direct on the Street looking over George’s comments and adding my own. Vicki Lister joined me for a short while, holding several brochures and guides about graduate employment following her visit to the campus Careers Centre. She believes she’ll be working with children once she leaves university and has already begun to look for placements.
Her preparation made me aware of my own circumstances again: how I should chase journalistic experience just in case I don’t find myself studying for a Creative Writing MA next autumn. I have the niggling idea that I should be writing an article in every moment I have spare: the society presidency, while certainly useful, may not be enough. The music magazine has been postponed until January, which is probably opportune considering how much time I should be devoting to my studies at present, but I should still be active. I may contact Concrete’s music section, considering the new editor is an acquaintance of mine - despite the playful jibes I’ve given the paper over the last two years, it will be ultimately less demanding in word count at this crucial time. I no longer underestimate its value.
My Poetry in Dark Times seminar that day used all three of its hours on examining Rilke’s On Holderlin. I find it to be a tense and fascinating poem, with Rilke’s apparent admiration for Holderlin’s dedication to his craft, his satisfaction to border upon the divine and yet never question it. Rilke’s search for understanding is palpable, and his concluding question is brilliantly impenetrable.
I then attended the first meeting of the new theory reading group set up by two likable postgrads, one of which is overseeing the creative dissertation writers. They had sent an email to all the third year LIT students, but only three including myself turned up. We made fun of Freud’s Creative Writers and Daydreaming before I returned home to procrastinate. For most of the night, I chatted with Alex, a new Italian member of the CWS. Her conversation is interestingly direct - I’m not sure whether that’s due to the language barrier (I taught her the word ‘dumpling’ after she claimed gnocchi was pasta), her culture or her natural personality.
Charlotte was a little upset about my comments on monogamy in my last entry, understandably so, but this journal has always been a honest one. She's so deserving of being the most important person in my life - I've not known such unconditional affection from anybody else other than my family, and she accepts my being close with other female friends - but I worry that I don't always give her that confidence sometimes. I could always be a better boyfriend.
On Wednesday, before that day's feedback workshop, I met Gary for a discussion about publicity for our Oxfam open mic on November 9th, seeing as he is our officer in that department. It's easily the most ambitious event we've held yet, requiring a large amount of organisation; Gary's already made a micro site and arranged an extensive advertising campaign, and in addition to discreetly screening our performers, they will also be charged to perform.
The feedback session was quite amusing. Two performance poets that I hadn't met before thrilled us with their work: a well-off girl responded to being told that her voice 'wasn't black enough', and another quite serious man wrote about elephants and strawberries at Sainsbury’s. I told them both about the open mic - having some new members involved over outsiders would be highly preferable. In the bar afterwards, I spoke with two other new members, Rob and David Astley, mainly about football. Rob is part of a group of friends which hire an Astroturf twice a week. I may yet be jumping in - I haven't played regularly since I met on Peel Park with the Mormons every Saturday morning a few years back.
A few hours passed before I left with David Langdon to watch the Unthanks play at Norwich Arts Centre. I offered to pay for David's ticket as he had nothing more important to do and I would have hated to experience a band of their beauty alone. We sat drinking lemonade and chatting by lamplight in the venue bar for a few minutes before entering the theatre.
The concert reminded me of Stars in London in its modesty and emotional honesty. Rachel Unthank personally came on stage to introduce the support, immediately presaging the night's informality. Jonny Kearney and Lucy Farrell were a pleasant pairing, the former's warm and slightly awkward voice and bright guitar supported by the light melodies of the latter. And then the Unthanks came on...
Nobody Knew She Was There
Twenty Long Weeks
Lucky Gilchrist
Because He Was A Bonny Lad
Annachie Gordon
Sad February
Flowers of the Town
Guard Yer Man Weel
Living By The Water
Felton Lonnin
Where’ve Yer Bin dick
At First She Starts
The Testimony of Patience Kershaw
Sexy Sadie
Blackbird
Encore:
Betsy Bell
Here’s The Tender Coming
It was a wonderfully touching, dare I say human, performance of such emotional intensity as to make me tingle at several points. There was no pretentiousness or perfection to be found here - sections often continued one beat too long; the double bassist suffered a nosebleed and had to sit out temporarily. The two sisters chatted with the audience on a regular basis, even encouraging us into a quiet sing-along to conclude the night. Most of the Unthanks’ music has such a soothing melancholy, from the hauntingly insistent celebratory mourning of Lucky Gilchrist to the uplifting, but ultimately resigned, determination of Patience Kershaw. However, we were greeted with equal optimism, graced with playful interludes like Where’ve Yer Bin Dick and the music hall jaunt of Betsy Bell (which also included Rachel’s clog dancing, as did Lucky Gilchrist). With no disrespect intended whatsoever, none of their studio work or my words now can demonstrate the atmosphere or their live presence on the night.
In the breakdown of Blackbird, Rachel made sure we applauded every member of ‘the Unthank family’. This was all -round entertainment, a community joined inextricably together in joy and in sorrow. It was quite simply the truest representation of life’s essence that I’ve witnessed in a while. As I wrote in David’s notebook at the time, the Unthanks have single-handedly secured my love for the north-east.
After the concert, I spoke with Becky and Rachel when they came out to supervise the merch booth. They were nice enough to sign the notes I’d been making all concert for an intended review (what I just wrote here is the closest approximation to that so far), having noticed me with the pen and book at the front of the crowd. I told Becky about my affiliation with the area and my visit to Redcar after they mentioned it in the introduction to Sad February, and asked Rachel about the surprising omission of Blue Bleezin’ Blind Drunk, the first ever Unthanks song I heard due to their performance at the Mercury Awards. She said they wanted to concentrate on the new material. I wished them luck for the rest of their tour.
I’m tempted to buy a physical copy of their new album, despite having already downloaded it (legally via Amazon, I might add!) in mp3 format. Tangibility is a valuable asset these days.
The next few days were uneventful. I attended an obligatory dissertation meeting on Thursday which didn’t offer any particularly new information, although I did get to catch up with Hazy and other first year friends like Laura Coyne and Frances. Hazy and Jo Piffero are also writing poetry dissertations under the supervision of George. I’ve arranged a meeting between the three of us tomorrow where we can exchange work and offer each other motivation. I’m hoping we can keep it up until the end of the semester: we vastly outnumbered poets need to band together.
On Saturday, I headed out early to join the Eastern Blues in the Wig and Pen for Chelsea’s away game at Villa Park. There were around eight attendees this time around, more than the number to which I’d previously been accustomed. Following my typical first impression in which I immediately spilt cider into Cat’s handbag, Joe and Cat know me for spilling something almost every time that I’ve been with them. I kept up this tradition by tipping the salad from my burger all over my lap. Mike Hargraves finally joined us for the Blackburn game yesterday- he seemed very excited about signing up when the club gains sixty members; apparently, the former won’t be too far away with an influential group of season ticket holders about to persuade their friends. By this time next year, the Eastern Blues should have official recognition.
A quick trip to the city to buy a birthday card later, I returned home to find two Californians roaming the house. It turned out that I’ve forgotten that Lizzy and Laura Konner, Andi’s flatmates from the first year, were staying with us on a week-long visit. They brought gifts of Lucky Charms and smore flavoured Pop Tarts.
The following afternoon, the entire house went to the Wetherspoons on the Riverside for lunch, excluding Jack who was on his occasional climbing trip in the Peak District. Jay attended for the meal then left soon afterwards to work on his dissertation. He officially moved out a few days ago, although the difference is only noticeable now that the Americans have departed again too. The house is no longer cramped. Perhaps my milk will also survive a little longer in the fridge! From the conversation’s shift after he left, it appears I’m not the only friend that he’s insulted, accidentally or otherwise, recently.
The rest of the evening was slow as I flitted upstairs and downstairs, catching the end of The Last King of Scotland (one of the books that I didn’t read in my first year) and helping Joe with writing an editorial article for one of the main Chelsea supporters’ sites. Over the second half of the week, the Football Manager 2010 demo was toyed with and abandoned - my next venture will begin with Truro City by the end of this coming week. Playing with Chelsea temporarily was much more bearable than my usual lower league outfits who can barely string a few passes together without losing the ball or putting it out of play. The torture I inflict upon myself in the Blue Square South is meant to serve as a developmental experience.
Monday 19th - Sunday 25th October
Monday was my mum’s fiftieth birthday. I woke up late to have my father, my great uncle Doug and Colin arrive at the house. Beforehand, we wandered into the city centre, with Doug wanting to witness the historical elements. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much opportunity for that, as Dad decided that I needed new trousers for our planned dinner out. Therefore, for an hour or two, we drifted between stores looking for clothes and searching for my my mum and aunt who were incredibly difficult to pin down. I always forget just how irritating spending time with my family can be at times, with its often unnecessary hassle and arguments.
Eating at the Waffle House for lunch, Dad disapproving of the price, I was then escorted back to Downham Market, sitting around before as a family we drove out together to sit down for a quite enjoyable meal at Timbers. Timbers is a pleasant hotel just outside of Downham, including a large bar, restaurant and function room within what seems to be a renovated barn.
Discussion quickly started about arrangements for my twenty-first birthday, which will fall between Good Friday and Easter Sunday this year, right in the middle of the Easter break. I still hadn’t considered anything in too much depth. I quickly dismissed the idea of holding any party in Manchester; considering all of my close friends at UEA are southerners or can be approximated as such, it seemed more pragmatic to split the celebrations or hold any event down here. The comfortable atmosphere of Timbers, along with its room availability, suddenly seemed quite suitable. I can’t think of any better candidate at present. Already, I’m getting carried away with thoughts of dozens of friends in attendance with a wonderful meal and an indie DJ, or even my forming a one-night-only band...
,
I was taken back to Norwich the next morning for my seminar, skimming through the next day’s workshop with Jodie before heading home. Now that my workload is about to become heavier with the looming threat of a Dark Times essay, I will struggle to attend two workshops a week. All of the other senior members are facing their own commitments. Jodie and I have already decided not to organise workshops next week, being Reading Week, instead holding open writing sessions. It will be interesting to see how we cope with the pressure alone.
I had another enjoyably smooth meeting with Jane Abson again early on Wednesday afternoon. We discussed my various approaches to work and the miniature deadlines I have set myself mentally in order to stay on track - for example, I’m hoping for ten poems by the end of Week 8. At the start of Week 6, I’m currently on five. I’d better pick up the pace! Along with organising another meeting where we can further discuss how I balance my time, she has also offered to help me with organising my search for a potential MA course. (Ed: I'm keen to avoid braving another new environment for now, whilst also being aware of my separation from Charlotte for another year. The shortlist of cities is currently Norwich, Manchester, Newcastle, Oxford and London... The last option is intriguing.)
The meeting that day was again quite successful, this time focusing on interior monologue. I came out of it with a villanelle based on someone’s confession that they really dislike cats. Two people conspired together and satisfyingly destroyed Katie Price and Peter Andre. For the first time, there was a satisfying large turnout after the workshop too -a decent sized group appears to be forming, so I’m pleased. I remained in the bar with David Astley when everyone had left in order to sample the Table Football group - as with Poker Soc, getting soundly thrashed by players far superior to me in a competitive environment didn’t strike me as the best way to make friends.
Thursday was entirely concentrated around the television, intrigued as I was by Nick Griffin’s appearance on Question Time and the protests that occurred outside the BBC Television Centre beforehand. In retrospect, I don’t feel anybody on the panel came off particularly well, as many people have commented - seeing Griffin ridiculed was indeed enjoyable, but it was painfully obvious that he was in for a hard night as soon as the program opened and a Muslim and an African American were seen to be sitting around the table. It didn’t feel as much as a triumph as it would have been if Griffin had been allowed to ruin himself without facing abuse from almost everyone in the studio. If anything, it has only fuelled the BNP’s claims of conspiracy.
I finally started a fifth poem on Friday evening before Tallie came over to hang out for a few hours, having attempted to focus on her own dissertation and finding herself stressed. We had our usual Internet exploration for a few hours, laughing at the absurd ad hominem arguments on the BNP’s website to classic cartoons from our childhood to ‘animal vs. animal’ fights on YouTube. Today, I watched the first two James Bond films with Andi and Bridges. Bridges bought all twenty-two films, re-mastered, inside an attaché case for £100 last weekend.
So, on to Week Six. Amy Wragg, a friend of the CWS, has invited us to her Halloween open mic in St. Gregory’s Centre for the Arts on Friday. Currently, there are few freshers involved so I’ll need to prepare a piece. The Twilight Sad are also playing on Wednesday night - I may turn up and pay on the door, depending where I am with everything else. Most likely, I’ll ignore that rule and turn up anyway. No wonder Orientation is going slower than anticipated... Discipline is urgently required.
Having eight poems written at the very least, along with my first Dark Times essay, before Charlotte arrives on Bonfire Night for our trip to Dublin would be a sufficient target; with the latter due in the middle of Week Eight, starting two weeks early would be a great step for me.
Charlotte’ll be staying until the following Monday; it’ll be the first time that I’ve seen her for nearly three months. We’ll need to be awake at 7am that Friday - my aunt and uncle offered us the opportunity to stay with them to take two hours from everyone else’s journey in the morning, but that would have involved Charlotte and I sleeping in separate rooms overnight; there was more chance of Nick Griffin becoming a communist! (2.17am, 26th October)
Tuesday 13th - Sunday 18th October
In the morning, I met George for our first meeting since I finally became able to write some poems for him (the ones that have appeared in an earlier entry). He seemed largely appreciative of my work but also had some inevitable criticism, some of which I disagreed with; considering George is a long published and award-winning poet, it would obviously be unwise of me not to at least take his views into consideration. Nevertheless, I appreciated the dilemma - whether I eventually take his advice in each situation, ignore it or attempt to reach a compromise, it will be interesting to explore that tension in my commentary and evaluate my decision.
Once we had finished, I went for some quick lunch in the new Café Direct on the Street looking over George’s comments and adding my own. Vicki Lister joined me for a short while, holding several brochures and guides about graduate employment following her visit to the campus Careers Centre. She believes she’ll be working with children once she leaves university and has already begun to look for placements.
Her preparation made me aware of my own circumstances again: how I should chase journalistic experience just in case I don’t find myself studying for a Creative Writing MA next autumn. I have the niggling idea that I should be writing an article in every moment I have spare: the society presidency, while certainly useful, may not be enough. The music magazine has been postponed until January, which is probably opportune considering how much time I should be devoting to my studies at present, but I should still be active. I may contact Concrete’s music section, considering the new editor is an acquaintance of mine - despite the playful jibes I’ve given the paper over the last two years, it will be ultimately less demanding in word count at this crucial time. I no longer underestimate its value.
My Poetry in Dark Times seminar that day used all three of its hours on examining Rilke’s On Holderlin. I find it to be a tense and fascinating poem, with Rilke’s apparent admiration for Holderlin’s dedication to his craft, his satisfaction to border upon the divine and yet never question it. Rilke’s search for understanding is palpable, and his concluding question is brilliantly impenetrable.
I then attended the first meeting of the new theory reading group set up by two likable postgrads, one of which is overseeing the creative dissertation writers. They had sent an email to all the third year LIT students, but only three including myself turned up. We made fun of Freud’s Creative Writers and Daydreaming before I returned home to procrastinate. For most of the night, I chatted with Alex, a new Italian member of the CWS. Her conversation is interestingly direct - I’m not sure whether that’s due to the language barrier (I taught her the word ‘dumpling’ after she claimed gnocchi was pasta), her culture or her natural personality.
Charlotte was a little upset about my comments on monogamy in my last entry, understandably so, but this journal has always been a honest one. She's so deserving of being the most important person in my life - I've not known such unconditional affection from anybody else other than my family, and she accepts my being close with other female friends - but I worry that I don't always give her that confidence sometimes. I could always be a better boyfriend.
On Wednesday, before that day's feedback workshop, I met Gary for a discussion about publicity for our Oxfam open mic on November 9th, seeing as he is our officer in that department. It's easily the most ambitious event we've held yet, requiring a large amount of organisation; Gary's already made a micro site and arranged an extensive advertising campaign, and in addition to discreetly screening our performers, they will also be charged to perform.
The feedback session was quite amusing. Two performance poets that I hadn't met before thrilled us with their work: a well-off girl responded to being told that her voice 'wasn't black enough', and another quite serious man wrote about elephants and strawberries at Sainsbury’s. I told them both about the open mic - having some new members involved over outsiders would be highly preferable. In the bar afterwards, I spoke with two other new members, Rob and David Astley, mainly about football. Rob is part of a group of friends which hire an Astroturf twice a week. I may yet be jumping in - I haven't played regularly since I met on Peel Park with the Mormons every Saturday morning a few years back.
A few hours passed before I left with David Langdon to watch the Unthanks play at Norwich Arts Centre. I offered to pay for David's ticket as he had nothing more important to do and I would have hated to experience a band of their beauty alone. We sat drinking lemonade and chatting by lamplight in the venue bar for a few minutes before entering the theatre.
The concert reminded me of Stars in London in its modesty and emotional honesty. Rachel Unthank personally came on stage to introduce the support, immediately presaging the night's informality. Jonny Kearney and Lucy Farrell were a pleasant pairing, the former's warm and slightly awkward voice and bright guitar supported by the light melodies of the latter. And then the Unthanks came on...
Nobody Knew She Was There
Twenty Long Weeks
Lucky Gilchrist
Because He Was A Bonny Lad
Annachie Gordon
Sad February
Flowers of the Town
Guard Yer Man Weel
Living By The Water
Felton Lonnin
Where’ve Yer Bin dick
At First She Starts
The Testimony of Patience Kershaw
Sexy Sadie
Blackbird
Encore:
Betsy Bell
Here’s The Tender Coming
It was a wonderfully touching, dare I say human, performance of such emotional intensity as to make me tingle at several points. There was no pretentiousness or perfection to be found here - sections often continued one beat too long; the double bassist suffered a nosebleed and had to sit out temporarily. The two sisters chatted with the audience on a regular basis, even encouraging us into a quiet sing-along to conclude the night. Most of the Unthanks’ music has such a soothing melancholy, from the hauntingly insistent celebratory mourning of Lucky Gilchrist to the uplifting, but ultimately resigned, determination of Patience Kershaw. However, we were greeted with equal optimism, graced with playful interludes like Where’ve Yer Bin Dick and the music hall jaunt of Betsy Bell (which also included Rachel’s clog dancing, as did Lucky Gilchrist). With no disrespect intended whatsoever, none of their studio work or my words now can demonstrate the atmosphere or their live presence on the night.
In the breakdown of Blackbird, Rachel made sure we applauded every member of ‘the Unthank family’. This was all -round entertainment, a community joined inextricably together in joy and in sorrow. It was quite simply the truest representation of life’s essence that I’ve witnessed in a while. As I wrote in David’s notebook at the time, the Unthanks have single-handedly secured my love for the north-east.
After the concert, I spoke with Becky and Rachel when they came out to supervise the merch booth. They were nice enough to sign the notes I’d been making all concert for an intended review (what I just wrote here is the closest approximation to that so far), having noticed me with the pen and book at the front of the crowd. I told Becky about my affiliation with the area and my visit to Redcar after they mentioned it in the introduction to Sad February, and asked Rachel about the surprising omission of Blue Bleezin’ Blind Drunk, the first ever Unthanks song I heard due to their performance at the Mercury Awards. She said they wanted to concentrate on the new material. I wished them luck for the rest of their tour.
I’m tempted to buy a physical copy of their new album, despite having already downloaded it (legally via Amazon, I might add!) in mp3 format. Tangibility is a valuable asset these days.
The next few days were uneventful. I attended an obligatory dissertation meeting on Thursday which didn’t offer any particularly new information, although I did get to catch up with Hazy and other first year friends like Laura Coyne and Frances. Hazy and Jo Piffero are also writing poetry dissertations under the supervision of George. I’ve arranged a meeting between the three of us tomorrow where we can exchange work and offer each other motivation. I’m hoping we can keep it up until the end of the semester: we vastly outnumbered poets need to band together.
On Saturday, I headed out early to join the Eastern Blues in the Wig and Pen for Chelsea’s away game at Villa Park. There were around eight attendees this time around, more than the number to which I’d previously been accustomed. Following my typical first impression in which I immediately spilt cider into Cat’s handbag, Joe and Cat know me for spilling something almost every time that I’ve been with them. I kept up this tradition by tipping the salad from my burger all over my lap. Mike Hargraves finally joined us for the Blackburn game yesterday- he seemed very excited about signing up when the club gains sixty members; apparently, the former won’t be too far away with an influential group of season ticket holders about to persuade their friends. By this time next year, the Eastern Blues should have official recognition.
A quick trip to the city to buy a birthday card later, I returned home to find two Californians roaming the house. It turned out that I’ve forgotten that Lizzy and Laura Konner, Andi’s flatmates from the first year, were staying with us on a week-long visit. They brought gifts of Lucky Charms and smore flavoured Pop Tarts.
The following afternoon, the entire house went to the Wetherspoons on the Riverside for lunch, excluding Jack who was on his occasional climbing trip in the Peak District. Jay attended for the meal then left soon afterwards to work on his dissertation. He officially moved out a few days ago, although the difference is only noticeable now that the Americans have departed again too. The house is no longer cramped. Perhaps my milk will also survive a little longer in the fridge! From the conversation’s shift after he left, it appears I’m not the only friend that he’s insulted, accidentally or otherwise, recently.
The rest of the evening was slow as I flitted upstairs and downstairs, catching the end of The Last King of Scotland (one of the books that I didn’t read in my first year) and helping Joe with writing an editorial article for one of the main Chelsea supporters’ sites. Over the second half of the week, the Football Manager 2010 demo was toyed with and abandoned - my next venture will begin with Truro City by the end of this coming week. Playing with Chelsea temporarily was much more bearable than my usual lower league outfits who can barely string a few passes together without losing the ball or putting it out of play. The torture I inflict upon myself in the Blue Square South is meant to serve as a developmental experience.
Monday 19th - Sunday 25th October
Monday was my mum’s fiftieth birthday. I woke up late to have my father, my great uncle Doug and Colin arrive at the house. Beforehand, we wandered into the city centre, with Doug wanting to witness the historical elements. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much opportunity for that, as Dad decided that I needed new trousers for our planned dinner out. Therefore, for an hour or two, we drifted between stores looking for clothes and searching for my my mum and aunt who were incredibly difficult to pin down. I always forget just how irritating spending time with my family can be at times, with its often unnecessary hassle and arguments.
Eating at the Waffle House for lunch, Dad disapproving of the price, I was then escorted back to Downham Market, sitting around before as a family we drove out together to sit down for a quite enjoyable meal at Timbers. Timbers is a pleasant hotel just outside of Downham, including a large bar, restaurant and function room within what seems to be a renovated barn.
Discussion quickly started about arrangements for my twenty-first birthday, which will fall between Good Friday and Easter Sunday this year, right in the middle of the Easter break. I still hadn’t considered anything in too much depth. I quickly dismissed the idea of holding any party in Manchester; considering all of my close friends at UEA are southerners or can be approximated as such, it seemed more pragmatic to split the celebrations or hold any event down here. The comfortable atmosphere of Timbers, along with its room availability, suddenly seemed quite suitable. I can’t think of any better candidate at present. Already, I’m getting carried away with thoughts of dozens of friends in attendance with a wonderful meal and an indie DJ, or even my forming a one-night-only band...
,
I was taken back to Norwich the next morning for my seminar, skimming through the next day’s workshop with Jodie before heading home. Now that my workload is about to become heavier with the looming threat of a Dark Times essay, I will struggle to attend two workshops a week. All of the other senior members are facing their own commitments. Jodie and I have already decided not to organise workshops next week, being Reading Week, instead holding open writing sessions. It will be interesting to see how we cope with the pressure alone.
I had another enjoyably smooth meeting with Jane Abson again early on Wednesday afternoon. We discussed my various approaches to work and the miniature deadlines I have set myself mentally in order to stay on track - for example, I’m hoping for ten poems by the end of Week 8. At the start of Week 6, I’m currently on five. I’d better pick up the pace! Along with organising another meeting where we can further discuss how I balance my time, she has also offered to help me with organising my search for a potential MA course. (Ed: I'm keen to avoid braving another new environment for now, whilst also being aware of my separation from Charlotte for another year. The shortlist of cities is currently Norwich, Manchester, Newcastle, Oxford and London... The last option is intriguing.)
The meeting that day was again quite successful, this time focusing on interior monologue. I came out of it with a villanelle based on someone’s confession that they really dislike cats. Two people conspired together and satisfyingly destroyed Katie Price and Peter Andre. For the first time, there was a satisfying large turnout after the workshop too -a decent sized group appears to be forming, so I’m pleased. I remained in the bar with David Astley when everyone had left in order to sample the Table Football group - as with Poker Soc, getting soundly thrashed by players far superior to me in a competitive environment didn’t strike me as the best way to make friends.
Thursday was entirely concentrated around the television, intrigued as I was by Nick Griffin’s appearance on Question Time and the protests that occurred outside the BBC Television Centre beforehand. In retrospect, I don’t feel anybody on the panel came off particularly well, as many people have commented - seeing Griffin ridiculed was indeed enjoyable, but it was painfully obvious that he was in for a hard night as soon as the program opened and a Muslim and an African American were seen to be sitting around the table. It didn’t feel as much as a triumph as it would have been if Griffin had been allowed to ruin himself without facing abuse from almost everyone in the studio. If anything, it has only fuelled the BNP’s claims of conspiracy.
I finally started a fifth poem on Friday evening before Tallie came over to hang out for a few hours, having attempted to focus on her own dissertation and finding herself stressed. We had our usual Internet exploration for a few hours, laughing at the absurd ad hominem arguments on the BNP’s website to classic cartoons from our childhood to ‘animal vs. animal’ fights on YouTube. Today, I watched the first two James Bond films with Andi and Bridges. Bridges bought all twenty-two films, re-mastered, inside an attaché case for £100 last weekend.
So, on to Week Six. Amy Wragg, a friend of the CWS, has invited us to her Halloween open mic in St. Gregory’s Centre for the Arts on Friday. Currently, there are few freshers involved so I’ll need to prepare a piece. The Twilight Sad are also playing on Wednesday night - I may turn up and pay on the door, depending where I am with everything else. Most likely, I’ll ignore that rule and turn up anyway. No wonder Orientation is going slower than anticipated... Discipline is urgently required.
Having eight poems written at the very least, along with my first Dark Times essay, before Charlotte arrives on Bonfire Night for our trip to Dublin would be a sufficient target; with the latter due in the middle of Week Eight, starting two weeks early would be a great step for me.
Charlotte’ll be staying until the following Monday; it’ll be the first time that I’ve seen her for nearly three months. We’ll need to be awake at 7am that Friday - my aunt and uncle offered us the opportunity to stay with them to take two hours from everyone else’s journey in the morning, but that would have involved Charlotte and I sleeping in separate rooms overnight; there was more chance of Nick Griffin becoming a communist! (2.17am, 26th October)