Sophie

Trina writes: "You have been so lovely, loving and wonderful to me recently, I know you want me to see how committed you are to us and our fabulous relationship."

I reply "Fucking hell, that's upping the ante a bit! :)" and went to bed. And then next morning there was a bit of kerfuffle by email, in the modern way, about her getting "strange vibes" from me. To which I replied "Strange vibes? Have you been playing your Roy Ayres records at the wrong speed again?"

Irritatingly flippant, I suppose she might have thought; I am a lover in an unequal relationship of affection, as we are, as I always am. I can never reciprocrate what women solicit. Except in sex, I suppose, my selfishness a licence for theirs.

Your cultural memories affect what you say, and when I made the latter remark I was thinking of W N Herbert's poem "Sofia City Blues." I know this is to descend into the solipsitic fandom of an anticpated pop concert, but this is what makes me tense and relaxed and sexual and listen to this!

Eh am like thi toon whaur Eh wuz born
meh hert is always somewhere whaur it disnae belong;
the demons of thi ages rip ma heid tae rags
and Eh cairry meh sowel in these three bags,
Eh cairry meh sowel in these three bags.

do you confuse great pop music
with being in love
well, don't apologise

Eh'm thi less travelled, unravelled man
just a-waiting for a slogan in thi New Bedlam
Eh'm the man ootwith thi language, wi thi slanguage fuhl o baggage
and Eh cairry meh sowel in these three bags,
Eh cairry meh sowel in these three bags.

do you peel your mind and find
city within city within city?
don't make a career out of it

They tell me stoap translatin and enjoy thi kitsch
beginning wi thi wife o Doktor Lachnavitch
but anither ladybird just appeared oan ma pad
she sez Eh cairry meh sowel in these three bags,
Eh cairry meh sowel in these three bags.

the bed is sandy
the bed is Sunday
the bed is bad lasagne

tissue remains

Even just typing it makes me breathe heavily and wetness comes to my eyes. He will be reading in Lancaster soon, at our Literature Festival. Poetry is an oral art first of all, and like music, a shared social experience. How can people have an experience of music or poetry with an iPod? Surely all that is left is the commentary on your experience rather than the experience itself. Or is this just a mistaken argument for a non-existent authenticity? I don't know, let's have a drink.

In other news, I have the money back from the errant lodger, or rather, his Dad. I had a couple of phone conversations with the long-suffering parent, the last of which was this afternoon as he was standing outside the bank, about to transfer the money into my account. Harold told me the last time this happened, he had to bail him with a four figure sum, and that this is the last time he will be doing it, and both apologised to me and said it was right that I had threatened him with court action.

I'm glad he paid up because the action wouldn't have lasted five minutes in a court. He did owe me the money, but I have no proof of it, apart perhaps from showing the court my blog, and then the whole private-public dichotomy upon which my life is balanced, would collapse.