In the clear blue

So, back from the poetry day.

Today has been a day on which I've noticed things. I think it might be something to do with the fact most poetry is about observation of details, but I noticed all sorts of things - like the way the light plays off the water and how sugar crystals shine on a humble dolly mixture.

But, as usual, I am skipping ahead of myself. I will not go into the childishness I had to put up with because of my outfit, but I really think people make too much fuss about what they happen to be wearing. Ickiness. Nevermind. I even had to sing Come As You Are to make my point, but that's all another story, one that will never be related.

Right. The poetry day. I wound up listening to sprog being happy about the Foo Fighters' drum tech and roadie, Wiley. I solemnly informed she had become a fangirlie. She didn't believe me.
I did feel a little guilty about leaving Becca on her own, but in the end, I just thought, screw it. It wasn't my fault Katrina and Megan pissed off somewhere, and I was with Emma. Fuck it, she asked me.

The place itself was a bit crap. Olympia, it was called, somewhere in Everton, and it was grimy and grubby and horrible.
The place we were sitting in was quite big, though, especially considering hardly anyone had known it existed. We were in the balcony, me and Becca, that is - at the front, and it was so horrifically uncomfortable I can't tell you. We could have done with a good five inches more legroom, and in the end my bum was numb, and Becca was moaning about not being able to feel her feet.

One of the first poets was Carol Ann Duffy, who was a bit of a disappoinment, because although she can write, she can't recite. I found she was gay today - somewhat surprising piece of information, but nothing compared to the fuss they made about it. The teenyboppery morons I go to school with - "She'a lesbian! Tee-hee!"

She... fucks... girls. Get over it.

The next poet I remember was Simon Armitage. With a name like that, I expected an old, bespectacled man - Becca said she thought he would have been a "suity guy" - but I was wrong. He turned out to be a rather nervous looking guy with a way with words, obviously deeply in touch with his feminine side, despite having crawled into whatever clothes he'd found lying around. He began with a poem about alcohol, the title of which I didn't hear - anyway, the poem was unbelievably good. After he'd finished it, the audience of teenagers burst into spontaneous applause. There had been applause for some of the other poets, but heavily laced with sarcasm. This was sincere, for the most part.

Unfortunately, the only part of the (long) poem I can remember is the last two lines:

"And you can sod off and die for me,
In the clear blue."

Anyway, he rocked. Some scally girl asked him about a poem of his called "November" - she asked whether the person in the poem was male or female. As he states in it it's his grandmother, he stared at the girl for a minute and then said, "My grandmother is a woman."
Classic moment.

And that's all I really want to write about. Lunch was the highlight, of course - bagel with cheese and tomato Phliadelphia - but no other poets were worth writing about. The Chief Examiner for English Lit. came on, and he turned out to be the most boring person in the Northern Hemisphere. He got booed off.

An odd part of today was the journey home. I seemed to have made friends with Becca today - seeing as we spent the whole of it together talking constantly, it looks that way. But on the journey home, it was fairly quiet on the bus, and the setting sun was softening details, playing off people's hair and reflecting in their eyes, making even the Liverpool docks something etheral and beautiful.

Of course, it didn't last. Becca and I walked home together in the direction of the setting sun. I came up with a wonderful mixed metaphor while talking about Peter - "... after a few years at Merchants', he'll be swearing like a... like a... chimney!"
I did a double take, a little pirouette on the pavement, and then burst into laughter. People nearby thought we were mad, drifting along laughing. Meg and Kat were there too, on the other side of the road, ignoring Becca because I was there. The way they turned away when I looked at them - it gave me a strange, tingling feeling of power.

Talking of Becca's brothers, she told me today that being the caring sister that she is, she went through Thomas's text messages, and read several from a girl named Kitty, who seems to be his girlfriend. She told me she had a sudden unaccountable to urge the hunt down the girl and beat her up. Apparently she even noted down her number, before realising there wasn't anything she could about it.

Anyway. A strange day, and what a ruthless update this has been.