Twaddle, precisely

Thursday January 13, 2005

It hasn’t all been solemnity and silence here in the little house by the fens, though we are all being specially considerate to one another, and Dolly has had far too many cuddles than are good for her. She’s doing a lot better now. It’s probably the cuddles.

Graham and I are doing better, too:

“What on earth is that?” Graham asked, coming into the study to see where the strange, slightly tinny voice was coming from.

I held up my little Sony dictaphone. “It’s this. I’m getting it ready to sell on eBay.”

“Yeah. But what’s that you’re saying?”

“Oh, it’s the purple hat poem. I was rehearsing it for that last poetry reading.”

He listened for a moment, laughed, and said: “If I’d known you were going to read that I might have come along.”

“Well, there’s always a first time.”

“Will you be joining a new poetry group when we get to London?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “But I’m not going to do any readings until I’ve got my new teeth.”

“Fair enough. When you’ve got your new teeth and joined a new group I might come and listen to you. You’ll have to do the purple hat poem, though.”

“No promises. I don’t do promises when it comes to poetry.”

“That’s not very John Denver of you.”

“He didn’t wear purple hats.”

“True.”

A little while later he came back and said: “It’s not purple hats. It’s a red hat.”

“Yeah, I know. But I bet John Denver didn’t wear red hats, either. Not with purple, anyway.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t know that.”

“Why do you say it, then?”

“In my world, poets can say anything they choose.”

“Twaddle.”

“Precisely.”

 

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