We had a parents’ inclusion group meeting last night, in the pub where the Kinks used to play. My minutes may have been somewhat affected by alcohol (champage, provided on her business by the group’s chair) and the difficulty of hearing anyone against the general pub chatter. It was however a pleasant occasion, with nibbles as well as drink to toast the departure of The Demon Headmaster.
I had hoped to report that I was no longer secretary of the group, having declared when I took it on that I would not do it beyond July. However in the absence of any volunteer to take over, we agreed that minute-taking and typing up would rotate round the group, and that I would continue to draw up agendas and send meeting reminders. Given the amount of flattery the group gave me to persuade me to stay on, I just had to cave in.
So today I was typing minutes again, but also, much to my own surprise, managed to get together three fairly presentable, if old, poems to send to the poetry competition which had miraculously extended its deadline so I could still enter. I also discovered that although it feels as if I haven’t written any poetry at all in the last five to seven years, there has in fact been no year in which I didn’t write at least one. Which is better than nothing. Nothing however to match 2003 when I wrote 35 – but then I was in love. Now I’m not.