Noo Yare

I’ve spent the last couple of hours editing a poem by Elvis McGonagall for his forthcoming Nasty Little Press pamphlet. I’ve been working on the title poem Mostly Dreich. The opening line is “Dark lours the tempest that howls overhead.” It feels appropriate, my feet have been cold for days now. Can you imagine how weather like this must have felt in the olden days, like the 1970s? I barely want to carry on and I have an iPad. How did you all survive?

New Year’s Eve, eh? Not having a big one, obvs. Going to stay in with my wife, in-laws and a couple of mates. Russel Howard will probably be on BBC3, so that’s something, eh? Personally I just want this period of festive fun over and done with. I’ve done my reflecting (see previous blog, that’s about as reflective as I get) and I want to get on with things. I’m not a good relaxer and I don’t see why I should have to be. My life is quite lazy enough without having to build in periods of rest and leisure.

I think a lot of people in my sort of positon feel the same. My poet mates aren’t very good at time off either. We have turned our hobby, our fun thing, into a career and we’re pretty happy just to keep on at it all year round. I have gone through periods of rejecting this natural inclination – of declaring myself in need of more robust compartmentalising – but now I don’t know, why fight it?

So bring on the new year and work and travel and new things.

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