Andrew Motion mumbles. Not enough to be unintelligible, but just enough to make seeing his lips useful when guessing what a misheard word might be. I can’t lip-read, but looking focuses my mind, as does an extended tongue for some. I’d sat behind an enormous man – bulky like a bouncer, Andrew Sheridan’s haircut, a neck to match – and try as I might, I couldn’t get a direct line-of-sight to the Poet Laureate. The world’s best loose head prop-a-like bobbed left and then right only seconds after me. I moved my chair into the aisle.
Prop-a-like’s companion dropped her purse during one of the poems. Rather than add to the disturbance, she left it open on the floor, spewing contents, until the poem ended. She had her toothbrush in her purse. I wonder if Prop-a-like saw it as he helped her pick up her things. I wonder if he thought what I thought – that she wasn’t planning to go home that night. Did he already know? Or was that the moment that he realised his luck was in? His neck wasn’t giving much away.
What a brilliant night with Pippa last night! Sankey’s has changed a lot. One of the parents of one of the bands grinned out at me from underneath a killer Ann Widdecombe bowl cut. Emelyn was thrown out for participating in a good-humoured stage invasion of his own girlfriend’s band.
There was drama on the night bus. A slender and mouthy brunette - reminding me of Rachel, though I don't know why - was on the right side of an argument about immigration, but was conducting herself despicably during it. She got into a fight with some girl who she'd called a 'dumb blonde Daily Mail cunt' having just met her. Part of me thought I'd rather like Mouthy if I knew her, and part of me thought she was an idiot.
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