Well, hello! It seems so long since I was last here. I don't know, time is rushing by and the world's spinning too fast, I just can't keep up with things. But right now, I'm waiting for my dinner to cook -- I am sitting down, waiting, doing nothing else and able, finally, to tell you all about my trip to London the other week.
It was the Forward Prizes awards -- an annual UK poetry prize, and one of our authors, Simon Barraclough was shortlisted for the best first collection award. Chris had been in previous years but wasn't feeling too good, so I was very happy to go in his place. I brushed my hair, printed out a map and set off for the train station.
When I arrived in London I got on the tube, and then clutching my map, made sure that I held it the right way up, walked the right direction down the right road and followed it, determined to find the venue without getting lost. After a few minutes though I had to ask for help -- I couldn't quite work out what had gone wrong, but the road that should have been next on the left wasn't there.
I found someone who knew London (which is more of an achievement than it sounds) and showed her the map:
me, pointing at the map: I got off at Warren Street station there, walked down this road and am trying to find that one.
Kind Helper: well, the map says Warren Street station, but the one you came out of was Russell Square.
OMG! What a complete idiot! I had got off at the wrong underground station and then made myself believe that I was following the map, when it was obviously impossible to. No street on the ground matched anything on the map. I despair of myself sometimes!
Anyway, I finally made it to the right place and was sorry that Simon didn't win the prize (robbed of it, he was!). The venue was packed and we were lucky enough to be right at the front where the awards were being made otherwise I don't think we would have heard or seen much at all. When the woman who won the prize for Best First Collection got to the microphone to read a poem, a man just next to me passed out. Great drama followed; the words "Is there a doctor in the house?" were said into the mic, someone shouted for an ambulance, no one quite knew whether the room should be vacated or not. Someone who was presumably a doctor came forward and the man regained consciousness, but the poor prize-winning poet never got her chance to read anything out -- I did feel sorry for her.
Such high drama, what an evening.
I took a photo of Simon looking rather splendid, here it is:
I've got loads more to tell you and will do my very best to make time stop for me this week. Meanwhile, I smell my dinner and wish a happy weekend to y'all.