We Are The Beatles: Lennon and Lennon

On Collaborating with Helen Thomas

I count myself as very lucky to have a writing pal I trust enough to collaborate with. Now, it’s not unusual for musicians to collaborate – think McCartney and Lennon – but I don’t know any poets who collaborate with other poets (unless they’re married).

Raymond Carver had his editor Gordon Lish, and I’ve got Helen Thomas.

It started when we spent time together on a poets trip to the New York book launch of Short Fuse: A global anthology of new fusion poets, editors Todd Swift and Philip Norton. We hit it off straight away, and had much fun there, where - during a radio interview - Todd said we were like the new Beatles. This was when our collaboration began. We both wanted to be John Lennon – I wrote a poem called Lennon and Lennon, and Helen wrote We Are The Beatles. I guess – okay Helen – that Helen (who’s a no-nonsense Northerner from Lymm in Cheshire) is indeed more Lennon, whereas because I’m from hippy-trippy South West Bristol, I’m more McCartney (gawd, I can’t bear Paul McCartney).

We decided to write a stage play based on our adventures (which was never finished), where I’d write one scene, send it to Helen, who’d polish it, then she’d send the next scene to me where I’d add my alterations/ suggestions, and so it carried on. We discovered that we were on the same wave length, and I trusted her opinion completely.

I’ve admired Helen and her word craft from the off, and have to say that her suggestions have been spot on.

Next I asked Helen’s advice and editorial skills on a few poems. They were mainly ones which I had a deadline for. We both found that something new was happening. It wasn’t a mere case of editing. I found that my work was transformed by Helen’s intervention, and she said that she’d never have written anything like the finished poems if I hadn’t begun them. The finished poems which we wrote together, then, were an amalgam of both our talents – and I think greater than the whole. A bit like Lennon’s rough added to McCartney’s smooth. Not that Helen’s poems are rough at all! I had (have) a tendancy to waffle and write more dancing poetry whereas Helen’s were (are) tight with no lean meat. If you’ve not read Helen’s poems then do.

I guess we both have the same sort of humour and find the same things funny, which is essential. I can’t imagine this sort of creative partnership with anyone else. Helen now collaborates with her partner Owen and they are Tingle In The Netherlands – again, visit them on facebook/ youtube, myspace, etc.

I hate anyone else’s input on my work – which is a terrible thing to admit – but I know that Helen can tweak something even better from my poetry.

I don’t call on Helen for all my poems – after all, she has her own work. But also because many of my poems are distinctively mine and have my voice. I enjoy the ones on which Helen and I have collaborated or which she’s edited for me. They have that extra Helen oomph!

The process usually starts with me contacting Helen in a panic – I have a poem I need for a festival/ performance, etc., and it’s just not coming together and I’m running out of time. I’ll then send it to Helen, and she’ll send back suggestions (usually in red). They could be suggested alterations, suggested rhymes for me to think about, or just a “I don’t think this scans”. It always gives me an injection of creativity and helps either jumpstart the poem, or triggers an avenue I’d not thought of, or highlights something I knew deep down wasn’t working.

So, here’s one of the first poems we collaborated on. It ended up a joint poem as Helen picked out many of my lines, added some new ones, and made tight suggestions. We wrote it for one of my performances at Ashton Court Festival (it’s credited to us both).

We Are The World by Helên Thomas and Rosemary Dun

By aspirant bouncing butterflies, I crouched coy as a grub

Back stage at the One World Festival, I wasn’t in their club

Of housewives with a hobby, belly dancing, flounced in silk

Some looked like Mr. Blobby with skin as white as milk.

Pot bellies swathed in chiffon, they danced the seven veils.

Not one of them was muslim, but some had come from Wales.

“We love the Arab traditions,” trills Mrs. Pontin-Fraynes

Elsewhere in far off deserts, vultures peck at shallow graves.

The Cotswold Samba Band’s as hot as Salsa and tequila

Amplified like gun shots on the streets of the Favela

As the future of a hunted child forever lies unfurled

His culture’s cherry picked by those who sing, “We are the world!”

And so I seek asylum in the toilets down the hall

From the Anglo Saxon Mummers, and their global festival.

Their faces stodgy cake mix paste, no dusky maidens here,

Just flaccid white bread, lemonade, drop scones and ginger beer.

So, thanks Helen, and until the next time xxx

Columbo, My Mother, And Me

COLUMBO, MY MOTHER, AND ME

We now live in an age where television and film help form part of our own personal historical and emotional landscapes. Yesterday came the news that Peter Falk, the actor who played Columbo, was dead. I felt sad, in a way which touched me viscerally. This is ridiculous, I thought, you didn’t even know the man. But then I realized that it wasn’t about the whole celebrity movie star thing - where you can feel as if you know someone and are then sorry for their passing. This ran deeper. And I realized it was much to do with my emotional landscape. This led me to reflect, blab out loud in the ether, about the intimate interaction between ourselves and that box in the corner of the room. Television has a way of inveigling itself into our lives on an emotional level, maybe even deeper than literature in the form of favourite books, can.

I would not have been bereft if I’d seen in the newspapers that Lizzie Bennet had died or that Jo March had been run over by a bus. These, I know at a deep intellectual – yes and emotional - level are fictional characters. And yet, onscreen with a much-loved television character the identification and emotional melding with character also embraces the actor: a living embodiment of a much-loved fictional character. Even though one’s intellectual brain is telling you that they are a separate person, somewhere on a more primitive visceral level there’s a bit which connects the onscreen with the actual. Our perceptions of reality are blurred.

I don’t mean that if I’d met Peter Falk I would have been one of those crazies, convinced that he was Columbo and not Peter Falk – but I’d also be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that a little voice somewhere would be trying to pipe up with “Look, there’s Columbo!”

So why did Peter Falk’s dying make me feel more sad than I’d ever been about other stars/ celebrities passing? It came to me, like one of Columbo’s flashes – “Doh,’ slaps head with hand – it’s because it’s a connection to my mother. I have fond memories of sitting on the sofa with my mother – now herself long dead, and who had loved Columbo. I adored my mother and absorbed many of her loves. I grew up with Columbo as part of my emotional landscape. My mum told me how Peter Falk was part of the new American cinema new wave alongside John Cassavetes, Gina Rowland, and Ben Gazzara. She told me all about his glass eye, as I tried to figure out which one. Yes, Columbo is inextricably woven into memories of my mother. With him gone, another piece of her goes too. Rational? No. The truth? Yes. Or something close to it.

Oh, and one more thing.

How The Light Gets In: Hay On Wye Festival

Well, this will be my third attempt to write this blog this morning. Computer keeps freezing - I need work! So, like the How The Light Gets In why not book me for my one-woman show called If Love Is The Answer, What Is The Question? One hour long.

How did this all come about? I was approached by the lovely people at the music and philosophy festival How The Light Gets In which runs alongside the BIG Hay On Wye Festival. I was thrilled to be invited to perform during an hour's slot 2.30-3.30 on Weds. 1st June 2011. Whoopee!

A couple of weeks before the big event, and I'm thinking OK, wonder who else is on with me? A quick check revealed that I had the whole hour to myself and that I was billed as Live Comedy! Eek! And also Woo hoo! Exciting and scary. So, being the old trouper that I am I immediately panicked and thought I know - I'll get - a UKELELE!!! (Bear with me - all will become clear).

Yay! But I can't play the ukelele.
So, I searched for ukelele lessons and luckily there was a 2-hour workshop in Bristol. Along I went, and there were about 20 people there too! So, I reckon that my lesson was about the equivalent of 10 mins uke instructions. Never mind! I went home and realised that I couldn't remember any of the chords, that they were too complex, as was the strumming which I couldn't do either. So, driven by panic - only 2 weeks and counting to the show, I picked something which sounded ok and wrote (well ok devised) a chorus about - Brian Cox! Then added verses (with the help of my mate Helen Thomas - more about that in another blog), and I had my comedy song-slash-poetry mash up (or as I like to refer to it, my mish-mash up!) Taking heart from a late-night tv viewing of Stewart Lee asserting that comedy songs are the way to go!

Next - and through diddling about on the internet researching space, philosophy, etc. I came across the sad story of Laika the space dog. David Bowie's Major Tom kept playing in my head, and I discovered that by noodling about on my uke, I could pick out the melody, and so the song-slash-poem Laika Dog was born, the chorus being : Hound control to Laika Dog/ take your worming pills, get ready for lift off/ etc. (You get the drift ...). Oh, and some lovely drawings courtesy of my daughter Morgan.

Ok, this was coming along - then a poem on philosophy, plus another comedy song based on The Rapture (the predicted coming of the Lord on 21st May which never materialised) was - of course - based on Country Joe and The Fish Vietnam Song - accompanied on a newly purchased tambourine!! Oh yes!

Good, good, coming together. Next a chat through with my mate and sometime collaborator Helen Thomas on content, and before I knew it the rest of the show had come together. I decided on a theme - something which had been running through my head for a while and there it was. My very own new one woman show!
I'm a big fan of going with first thoughts - as suggested by Natalie Goldberg - and it was amazing how seemingly random thoughts and ideas coalesced into a show with an overall theme. I'm also a bit of a devotee of surrealists random-ness, and the audience participation - which went extremely well, formed a large part of this. We did a list poem together, a flip chart was involved, some laughter, a small open mike, and a resolution of: If Love Is The Answer, What Is The Question. Finishing off with a playing out to The Beatles All You Need Is Love - preceded by a random (and hilariously unexpected) fanfare in the middle of one of my poems as the sound engineer, who'd been fiddling about with the levels on the cd accidentally fired up All You Need Is Love, and the excellent trumpeted fanfare rang out. Brilliant. I shall use that as an intro for my next show.

I loved the overall DIY feel of it all which I think is very much in keeping with my punk roots!

All in all, I had a lovely time. I do hope the audience did too. The tent was full, and no-one left before the end (so that was a result!!). I sold some books an all!

Many thanks to Josh who was my able assistant and wrote up the list poem on flip chart for me, and to his girlfriend Lily who had the chutzpah to write a four-line poem and get up on stage. Random cards were handed out for the list poem with the words Love is ... Those with the cards to then finish the line. The result was this list poem - written just as the cards came in (i.e. randomly - I love that, it gives more surprises!):

Love is
different

finding somebody permanent who you can annoy for life

looking after that special somebody

listening and keeping quiet

better as it gets older: far less messy!

pushing your mum in a wheelchair - uphill!

a warm jumper when it's cold.

a hot chocolate in the rain.

a dog bounding in the sea.

undefinable

a four-letter word

a tangled web

a gentle breeze blowing loneliness away

sharing time, enjoying each other's company,
being generous and knowing it's ok to be who you are!

Ah, and then ... but I can't really give away the rest as that's the point of the whole show.

If you'd like to book me for a thought-provoking, interactive, and rib-tickling hour-long show of music-slash-words-slash-comedy mish-mash-up, then do get in touch:rosemary.dun@virgin.net
I had lots of fun at the festival. Good food. Stayed at a wonderful B&B (I want them to adopt me!), bumped into a musician from Bristol who used to come along and perform at the openmike nights I used to host at Bristol's Folk House, hung out with some people I met at my show, and stayed for the comedy in the evening where the highlight for me was - yes, a comedienne performing comedy songs on her ukelele!! It's the way to go folks!

Peace and love, and happy festival season.

Fusebox 3 - We Are The Beatles

And here is another 2003 article I wrote for Rattapallax's online mag Fusebox (now no longer available). This was a follow-on from the anthology many of us were happy to be included in: Short Fuse: A global anthology of new fusion poets, pub Rattapallax, New York 2002. Helen Thomas and I were happy if not giddy to be present at the book launch in New York, October 2002. I was then asked to be guest editor of Fusebox and wrote this editorial on the kinda viva la difference between US and UK performance poets:

WE ARE THE BEATLES!

"Its like the landing of The Beatles," said Todd Swift. "The UK poets are here!" He was of course joking, and we were all in the recording studio of a New York radio station and it was October 2002 during a week long book launch of Short Fuse: a global anthology of new fusion poetry. Todd had been referring to me and Helên Thomas who were being interviewed along with Phil Norton, Todd and Fortner Anderson. Helên and I were in high spirits and larking about, but I was struck during the whole of our visit by how different UK performance poetry is to US performance poetry, and yet how it refers to and is influenced by US poets in much the same way as popular music and the Beatles were by US rock'n'roll way back in the 60s.

So, "Poetry is the new rock and roll" huh? Tom Phillips has a lot of fun with this in his poem; poking fun at how pundits seek to label emergent art forms as "the new rock and roll". And yet …

There's no doubt that performance poetry in the UK owes much to the import of slam poetry from the US. We've taken it to our hearts and added our own twist. I first became enamoured or "bitten by the bug" of performance poetry when I went to my very first slam, in Bristol, to support Lucy English. Wayhey! This is my type of poetry. I thought. And loved its immediacy and power – and entertainment value.

Lucy's poetry is well represented in this edition as she remains in the top 5 of my favourite UK performance poets. She displays a skillful mix of variety and humour in her work. Also, as another woman of – erhem – a certain age, I love "Old".

Performance poetry is subversive. It shakes the poetry establishment and challenges its hegemony. It lifts poetry from the page in ways that readings alone can't quite reach. Nathan Filer says that as he is primarily a performance poet and that as such, he prefers people to "hear" his material rather than "read" it. His "My Little Sister" is here in mp3 format. And this isn't a case of poetry poaching from the music industry nor from stand-up comedy. Performance poetry is an emerging art form, in its own right, which fuses spoken word with other art forms to become something unique. Glenn Carmichael is a fine poet who brought slam to Bristol with Bristol Poetry Slam; he mixes film, visuals, music and words in all of his performances, and his work is represented here in film.

Performance poetry does not rely on publishing houses nor academic institutions to define whether or not the work has "made the grade". It relies on the audience. And the performance poetry audience vote – either literally in the case of slams or via "bums on seats" - on what and who they consider to be good enough. No longer do we – the audience - need to be told what is or is not "good" poetry. No longer does poetry have to be hard work to be enjoyed. No longer do we feel as if we, or our audiences, need a university education to enjoy poetry let alone write it. This is a reclaiming of our oral tradition. And the way it connects with an audience is exciting.

That's not to say that performance poets are not published either. As you will see from the biographies, many have MAs in their art, or are jobbing writers, or have been published as "proper" poets; many teach at further education establishments and universities. Many of us refute the criticism levelled at performance poetry that it is "poetry lite" or represents a "dumbing down". My view is that performance poets up and down the UK and globally are producing spoken word that is accessible and has something to say about internal and external contemporary life. This collection goes some way to reflecting the UKs multi-culturalism especially with Khadijah Ibrahiim's moving tales of her grandmother's experience of arriving here on the ship Windrush from Jamaica in the 1960s. And her poem "Riddims Talking" is here in mp3 format. In Anita Govan's "black butterfly" one can almost taste the grit in those Scottish Edinburgh Streets. And Diké Omeje's wonderful witty play on words are cool, hip, and mesmerising – as are his performances.

In UK poetry gigs you can here the early influences of music hall monologues such as Albert And The Lion, and the clever cautionary tale verse of Hilaire Belloc and Joyce Grenfall, and even the songs of The Two Ronnies and Benny Hill. Humour is a key to UK performance poetry and can be every bit as iconclastic as Monty Python was. Poetry out loud in the UK includes a revisiting of working class traditions in the subverting of songs and mimicry – examples being Lucy English's "My Worst Things" and Helên Thomas' "We Are The Beatles". And then there is punk: Atilla The Stockbroker says on his website that he is "inspired by the spirit and "Do It Yourself" ethos of punk rock". Anti-establishment, irreverent, political, and very UK – yep, I don't think it’s a huge stretch to see punk rock's influence on UK poetry. Whether through punk poets such as John Cooper Clarke or Attila The Stockbroker, or even John Hegley.

And UK poets do not shy away from verse. Are not averse to verse (sorry!). Rhyme is not only making a bit of a comeback (especially through rap) but has never totally left. And yet, I gather from my trips and membership of various poetry group websites, that US poets are not so keen on rhyme. Please feel free to disagree. Here in this edition, Lucy English uses rhyme to good comic effect in "Excuse Me", as does other poets like Helen Thomas, Crispin Thomas; whilst Diké Omeje is one who uses rhyme for emphasis and to surprise.

Performance poets are more and more fusing words in ground breaking ways. Khadijah Ibrahiim is a fine example with her mix of rhythms and strong beats. You can hear the influences of Africa, punk, reggae, pidgin, dialects, rap, rock, hippy stuff, television, all and everything in poetry being performed. Wanna hear a vampire goth poet? We have her in the form of the wonderful Rosie Lugosi. I especially love her "Creatures of the Night" and "I'm being Queer for Britain". Magic. Then there's Attila The Stockbroker, a full-time punk poet who is a contemporary of John Cooper Clarke and who, in the grand tradition of poetry, mixes music and politics with wry spot-on words. In this edition he pays tribute to Joe Strummer of The Clash (Commandante Joe) who died suddenly this year.

Many poets now record CDs to offer more of the experience of their live performances and for some, to free poetry from the page where arguably its been tethered for too long. All this adds to the vibrancy which is performance poetry. At Big Mouth Cabaret nights we always have music which crosses over with poetry through its lyrical content and Bucky have been our resident in-house band and their rendition of The Beatles is in this edition.

So, are we The Beatles? John Lennon was a fine poet. When I was a kid I remember getting my hands on his Spaniard In The Works which I loved alongside the poetry of Spike Milligan (one of the founders of The Goons and Q, both forerunners of Monty Python). I would maintain that UK poetry is distinctive from, yet influenced by US performance poetry.

The Beatles work is now regarded alongside classical music. Yet in their heyday they were seen as "pop" and "lite". If poetry is the new rock'n'roll (which it isn't and that's a tired old cliché in any case) then I'd rather be Mick Jagger, no Otis Redding, no Marianne Faithful, no Ian Dury, no The Clash, no, Bananarama, no - many and diverse examples might as well be chosen. What I'm trying to say is that we are at the beginnings of performance poetry much as The Beatles and pop music was in the 1960s.

This isn't an academic work, but I maintain that there are parallels to be drawn. Then, "classical music" was seen as the only worthwhile music – the rest throwaway. Nowadays we have moved through rock'n'roll, punk, new romantics, the horror of the 80s, the boredom of the 90s, to the pop idols of today. OK, like some pop music some of today's poetry won't last the course. Some poets will be "one-hit wonders". (Now "readings" – which involve poets mumbling their poetry badly in back rooms of cafes - are different to "performance" and if I'm to carry through this analogy then I'd liken those types of "readings" to english folk music with morris dancing thrown in – but that's just my opinion! or bias). Being likened to The Beatles is not such a bad thing. In many ways it’s a useful comparison. Performance poetry has had the same criticisms levelled at it as rock'n'roll and The Beatles did back then. And yet it is a vibrant art form which is yet to have its day.

I bored Helên Thomas so much with all this that she wrote We're Not The Beatles (or 4 ants recreate Abbey Road – see cartoon) which she then quickly followed up with We Are The Beatles. When Helên and I collaborated on a project we joked that we were like the Lennon and McCartney of poetry – only neither of us wanted to be Paul McCartney - so I wrote a poem about that experience called "Lennon and Lennon". One of the poems we did come up with together, and which is included here, is "Ship Shape" - a poem neither of us would have written on our own but one we both like. Our come-uppance is that we both now live in fear that since our split one of us might write a Frog Chorus. Still. What fun we had. And there's nowt wrong with that.

I hope you will agree there is some very fine poetry here indeed. These are some of my favourite UK poets, and like all collections (well, like all my collections) there are exceptions to my self-imposed UK-based rule – Kevin Higgins (Irish), David Hill (Englishman in Prague), and Phil Norton (American living in Oz). I included them because they are so good. Phil Norton's mp3 of Everything Is An Alarm Clock is superlative and one to aspire to.

Oh, and this wouldn't be the UK without footie. So have included some football poetry. Yes, football poetry. Read it here in "On Me 'Ead, Son", and visit the football poets website and see what you think.

So, are we The Beatles? No, of course not. But we are here to stay.
Rosemary Dun © 2003

Yet Another Old Article

This one is from December 2003 when Big Mouth was in King Street, Bristol.

MY BIG NIGHT OUT (or a shameless plug for Big Mouth) by Rosemary Dun (3rd December 2003)


My top night out would start with my collecting some lovely poet from the station. As one of the perks of being a poetry promoter is that I get to pick the poets I book! Then we'd mosey on down to Bristol's equivalent of The Cavern i.e. Marlows, off Broad Street, which is Big Mouth Cabaret's new venue. By now my pre-show nerves would be kicking in big time. Being a host of Big Mouth's akin to holding a party where your fave witty people are bound to turn up – if only because you've booked them! I always get nervous that no-one will come. But they do! My top lineup would be Diké Omeje (mesmerising) and Matthew Harvey (hilarious). As MC I always glam up – all part of the fun. My best night would include my one-time resident band – Bucky - playing. Their last Big Mouth gig saw a packed audience cheering as Simon and Joff played on kids guitar (Simon) and tin bread bin (Joff) with Joff breaking off every now and then to draw a cartoon. Poetry, rock'n'roll and stuff. At the end of a kicking night and all loved-up with sexy and funny words, and Bucky, I'd head off with performers and chums, and even (ok, this happened once …) an admirer(!), to Renatos in King Street or the sumptuously seductive il Bordello. Yep, that once got so carried away ended up in a swish Bristol hotel ….with … ssssh … the rest I'm saving for my memoirs! So for a Big Night out with a difference I'd highly recommend Big Mouth.

A lovely visit to the past

This is an article I did for an online mag(can't remember which one) on a day in the life of. I loved it so much that I've posted it here:

A Day In The Life Of Rosemary Dun (17th October 2003)

I wake with a jolt at 6.00 a.m. Ohmigod! OK. I promised myself that I wasn't going to panic. DON'T PANIC!! First things first. I can't do anything about the fact that my main act for tonight's Big Mouth Cabaret has had to cancel – it's too early in the morning! Last night I decided not to panic but to sleep on it. Luckily James Quinn is in town. And he's brilliant. I'll phone James to confirm that he can step in and save the day - later. Too early now. I'm running my first performance poetry workshop at The Folk House tomorrow (Saturday), and have a big Big Mouth Cabaret show to get pinned down for this evening. Aaaaargh.

Turn on my computer. Check emails – great! 38 pieces of spam and 2 from poetry chums. I hate effin spam. Promise myself to work on Can The Spam poem which has now bombed at 2 slams even though Helen T assures me that it is funny and clever so I shouldn't abandon it. Hm.

Have now got 45 mins until I get my 2 girls up and ready for school. I was up til 1 a.m. last night writing handouts. I print them out. Must finish my bloody lesson plan as I'm going to be assessed by the college during the workshop. So, instead of doing lesson plan I do yet another handout. Have now got about 60 typed pages of handouts. Should make it up into a How To book. If I ever get the time. Am just printing out handout entitled "What Are You Going To Do Today & Where To Take It?" when I think - how prescient! No really, I do think that cos I've woken up the wordy part of my brain.

"I hate you!" shouts one of the kids and its back to getting the three of us washed, dressed, breakfasted, and out the house. This involves refereeing, shouting, pleading, then shouting some more, then threatening to make the kids go round and apologise to the neighbours for all the shouting. Even though its me shouting. Well, its not fair being a kid. We are about to leave the house only 5 minutes late at 8.15 when Morgan remembers that she doesn't have her saxaphone. Back into the house while Kate (other kid) mutters under her breath. All pile into the car and we do our collective prayer thing while my 2CV decides whether or not it will start.

Much arguing and muttering goes on in the car until finally I've finished dropping the kids off. Now have roughly half an hour to kill until I can get the flyers & handouts printed from the printers. Need flyers to hand out at this evening's show. In the meantime I risk phoning James. Leave a message. He's such a trouper! Last night I got him on his mobile and he promised to step in, save the show, and my bacon by performing a 20 minute set. He's got to get a friend to pop round his house in Manchester while he talks him through how to use his computer and send his poems so's he can then pick them up from an internet café. "Hi James, Rosemary here. Hope everything's still ok for tonight. Give us a call."

Quick check. OK, have now got printed stuffé. Have arranged for Kate to go stay with a friend straight from school. Have to collect Morgan from school and take her to her friends to stay the night. Have to collect Helen Thomas (one of tonight's performers) from the bus station at 2.30 and then Diké from the train station at 5.15. Then we all have to be The Folk House at 6.00 p.m.

Phone ringing – "Hi" Its Radio Bristol – they're doing some sort of roving reporter thing and want to interview me! I haven't got any time at all, I insist down the phone – is now 12 p.m. I have to have a nap otherwise I'll die. Am still not fully recovered from ME but can take the edge off if I have a power nap with my relaxation tape. The reporter knows Helen T from student days and reluctantly I agree to meet her outside the bus station while I collect Helen. I now realise that the way the day is going I won't have time to get ready for this evening – I'm the MC. So quickly wash and do my hair before settling down to have my quick nap at 1 p.m.

2 p.m. Aaargh! Quickly get a cup of tea. Survey the kitchen. Is as bad as the living room. No worse. Because of the busy-ness of last few days and the getting ready for the workshop – oh, and because I am a slob – there's about a week's washing up strewn about the kitchen. Debris from breakfast and last night and the house is so untidy it looks as if it's been burgled. Oh bugger. Just enough time to grab a banana for lunch and clear a space for Helen to sleep downstairs. Diké can have Kate's room. Jump in car and off to bus station.

As usual nowhere to park legally. Hi Helen. Explain bout the interview and we wait – reporter is late. Finally do quick interview and poem about Southville on air then off back home. Helen is anxious about her set. I'm even more anxious as have not sorted what I am going to do. James phones everything ok. I try and write out introduction cards for tonight whilst Helen insists on running a few poems past me. Aaaargh! Decide that there will be no time for me to do any poems, and that because of the cancellation I offer Helen a 10 minute set instead of sharing compering. Seems easier.

Is now 3.30 and I have to set off to collect Morgan. She's late coming out of school and by the time I drop her off at her friends and get back home its 4.45p.m. Hi Helen – no time even for a cup of coffee. I don't know! I like all the poems! Oh, ok do that one! I like that one better! Oh ok then do what you think is best!

Out the door at 5.00 p.m. Forget about Friday traffic and get stuck in a jam. Late at the station – nowhere to park. Hope that I'll recognise Diké. Cut up by 2 girls in a car who then proceed to poke faces and take the piss out of me. Charming – just what I need. Phone James to get Diké's mobile phone no. – thank James effusively again and give him directions on how to get to Folk House. Dikés train delayed. He arrives looking as gorgeous as ever and he's totally prepared – knows how much time he has, is rehearsed and timed. I think that I'm in love. (Sorry …) Back home to collect Helen who still wants to check that this poem is ok. I pack what I need for the evening, quickly get changed and take a change of clothes, extra poems – just in case – pen and paper and cards. Oh shit! Still haven't planned my MC-ing duties and written my cards. I hate not to be prepared. But its been a typical single mother poet and promoter's day !!! Nothing ever goes to plan!

Get to venue and am suddenly terrified that there won't be enough bums on seats. Am all too aware that I have 5 top acts and they all have to be PAID and I have to make enough money from my cut of the door. I do not get all the door takings but just a cut. Have remembered the table cloths and ask Helen to set them out. Bless Helen, she's fab and such a help even though she teases me mercilessly. But this would be even harder to do on my own. Actually maybe I should marry Helen …

Have only just enough time to write out the cards, get changed, get myself a drink before its SHOWTIME. The whole evening is a big success. Oh, ok, as a promoter I'm never totally satisfied – a few of the acts run over which means that the last act lost some of the audience who had to make their way home; a couple of the audience members were rude. But that was all! Wayhey! And James and Diké were so brilliant and fabulously good that I wanted to not only marry them but also have their babies.

Diké accepts James' offer of a lift home, I pay all the acts and am left with about £20 towards the printing costs of the flyers. Pack up – remembering to get my table cloths. Thank Steve and the sound guy for helping everything go so swimmingly. Then Helen and I go back to my house where we have an extremely hilarious post mortem, stay up til 2 a.m., Helen asks why I don't pay myself for MC-ing and putting on the show (hmm….), and then I insist that I must go to bed because I've suddenly remembered that – oh no - have still not done the lesson plan for tomorrow's (or rather today's) workshop. Set the alarm for 6 a.m. again.

Ah well.

Monologue - Not 42 - as promised

Not 42 by Rosemary Dun

So, I says to the girl in the shop – Excuse me. But I know my feet. And they are a size 8 - which is a European size 42. Or a US size 10 – if you're being really picky.
No, madam, she says. All hoity-toity. Which is a bit rich, as she looks like she's still at school – not much older than my Kate.
We don't stock size 42. Because that's a size 9, and we only go up to a 41 – which is size 8, she says with a little smile.
But I won't be mollified by her shop-trained niceties and her Have-A-Nice-Day's. Oh no.
Size 41 is most definitely not an 8, I insist. That's a size 7.
C'mon Mum, says Kate, clearly embarrassed. All size 40 or 6 ½ of her. She'll never have to worry about them altering her shoe size without a by-your-leave. No. She's got average feet. But when you have big clod-hoppers like mine - well, it's upsetting when some EU Regulation goes and sizes you out of the shoe-shop market. Completely.
In Doc Martens, I continue (and these are Doc Martens). An 8 is a 42. In Next shoes an' all, I add. And M&S, (for good measure).
By now I'm quite annoyed that all this re-sizing malarkey has turned me into a right shoe anorak. I like to see myself as cool. Even at my age.
Mu-u-u-um … says Kate. Tugging at my arm.
I know she wants to be off to Top Shop: but I've got the bit – or should I say, shoe – well and truly between my teeth.
I decide to employ sarcasm with this shop girl.
Right, I says. So what you're implying is that I've gone and forgotten what size shoe I take. Is that right? The girl looks about her for some moral support, but the other shop girls all appear to be looking the other way.
Maybe, I continue, you are right, and 20-odd years of wearing size 8 or size 42 shoes count for nothing beside your superior knowledge and experience. Hm?
The girl turns her back on me and talks into some kind of walkie talkie, while I stand my ground. Holding the purple suede shoe-boot I was hoping to try on, in my hand. I look at it. I mean. Shoe-boot. Whoever thought of that? And just who was it who came up with that name for what is essentially a cropped boot? Some of the other shoe-boots on display have their heels and toes cut out. They remind me of those funny shoes I saw in Eastern Europe the year the Berlin Wall came down. Before Yugoslavia split into two – or was that three? - and the Balkans war began. I dunno. Is this the price we have to pay for an extended EU membership? Re-sizing? (pause) And shoe-boots?
I went there travelling that year of 1989. With my American boyfriend Mark. I'd met him in LA when I was roller-skating along Venice beach. I loved those skates. Bought myself a pair to bring back to Bristol. For using up on the Durdham Downs. They've got paths up there. Still, they're not quite the same as a beachside promenade in La-la land. But fun, all the same.
Those skate-boots were an American size, of course. You had to get them one size bigger, for the white knee length socks you got to wear with them. I wore white short shorts too – with a red trim. Very Boogie Nights! So in the end those roller skates were actually an American size 11. Can you imagine? Size 11? I felt huge compared with those tiny American girls. Like some big lumbering Viking. This guy - in a boutique in Santa Monica - even asked me if I worked out. I just stared at him. No-one in England went to a gym back then. Not unless you happened to be a lady weight-lifter. Which I was not. Thank you very much.
Right. So there I am. In this shoe shop. In The Galleries. Thinking, I've had quite enough of this nonsense. I'm off. And without further ado, I turn on my size 42 heel in order to execute a dignified – if a tad bit flouncey - exit. When next thing I know, alarms are flashing, and that young shop girl floors me with a flying rugby tackle. As in my hand I'm still clutching that damn purple suede shoe-boot. Bloody EU.