This is a photo of a crowd, in place of the photos we didn’t manage to take at Bristol Central Library on Friday night. Normally, Dru would have expected to snap some Martin Parr-style pics, but we were swept off our feet. Not even a millisecond to create some spontaneous art.
This never happens to Margaret Atwood – but then she has people to take her photos, though even if we had people, even they wouldn’t have had the time.
Adam from the library had his camera. If he ever recovers from his weekend stag – the original Monopoly in London – then we’ll post some of them up.
In the meantime, many thanks for everyone who braved the rain to make it both to the event and The Three Tuns afterwards. I learnt:
a) I enjoy sitting on a bar stool for the show.
b) The Durdham Down bookshop is the last independent bookshop in Bristol. Many thanks to Kathryn for bringing and selling so many books, and to Lisa Gooding from Vintage for making that connection. (by the way, Durdham Down Bookshop are hosting a poetry event for World Book Day, on Saturday March 5th)
c) You can’t get chip-shop chips after 10.30 pm on a Friday night in Bedminster. Or in Hotwells. Nor are there chips on Kelloway Avenue. There were chips in Dru’s freezer, however – and very good they were, too.
(Dru here. My turn…)
Yes. Really good evening. A chance to meet friends, some of whom I hadn’t met in ‘real life’ before. And make some new ones. And answer questions from people who really were looking for answers. These are the best sort of questions to get thrown at you, even if I spent the weekend in a bit of an esprit d’escalier, thinking of better answers.
We do what we can.
I was talking with someone who is starting to work out where they’re heading (if you see what I mean) and, writing this, I recalled that, as I approached transition, I felt rather like someone edging towards the end of a diving board. And the words of Byrhtnoth also came to mind (not entirely appropriate, perhaps, but bear with me. Sometimes poetry comes unbidden)
“Nū ēow is ġerȳmed; gāð riċene tō ūs,
guman tō gūþe. God āna wāt
hwā þǣre wælstōwe wealdan mōte.”
“Now the way is cleared before you; come quickly to us,
Warriors to battle. God only knows
Who will end up holding this battlefield.”
Oh, yes. Signing someone’s book (you know who you are,
Karen)- she offered a choice of pens, and I recoiled from the one with skulls on, only to realise that I was signing the book with what appeared to be a hypodermic syringe. Goths! Tchah!