Thursday morning

I'm feeling productive and virtuous this week. I've managed to do quite a lot of work (though still a long way to go before I feel in control of the emails) and had some much-needed leisure time as well. Last night I walked into town to attend the launch of Harvey Molloy's Moonshot (Steele Roberts). Harvey's a top bloke, with a diverse and interesting background that is reflected in the poems. He's an active reader (by which I mean he performs, rather than just reading, though I wouldn't call him a 'performance poet') and his poems are entertaining, even the serious ones.

While I was there I caught up with Clare Tanner, Managing Director of Bookhabit.com, with whom the Poetry Society is collaborating to run an online poetry competition. ($US1000 first prize!). She and I talked to Neil Furby, who used to be involved in Porirua's Poetry Cafe, sadly now defunct. However, Neil tells me the cafe Aunt Daisy's, in Titahi Bay, now has an open mic night on the fourth Wednesday of the month. Hoorah! I will get out there one month - though I can't say which one - when I can gather a friend or two to accompany me. I am so over going to things alone.

Anyhoo, I was lucky enough to be given tickets to the dress rehearsal of the World of Wearable Arts, so after the launch I headed for the TSB Arena (or whatever it's called at the moment) and met Wally and another audiologist and her receptionist who were also given tickets. It was a magnificent occasion and a spectacular production. It deserves all the positive publicity it gets. I couldn't believe it when the finale occurred and the lights came up - two and a half hours passed like blinking. My favourite moment? When Wally pointed out a particularly lavish construction and said, "That could have come from our house". I had just been thinking the same thing myself, and was working out how I could make the garment of mine it most resembled, even more interesting. I have some bling lying around somewhere...

Today should be just another working day, but I've got to pick Sylvia up from Onslow College (bus strike) at 3pm, and she has a doctor's appointment, so that'll be another hour. I'll take my book. I'm reading a Pat Barker (though the title eludes me for the moment), an English lit. fic. writer who always manages to put a psychological spin on her books. She's a favourite, and I'm reading her between indulging in what I confess is my current obsession - psychological thrillers of the Jeffery Dreaver and Michael Connolly nature. I stayed in bed until noon on Tuesday morning to finish The Vanished Man (Dreaver) because it was due back at the library that day. In the last month I've read 3 Dreavers, 1 Connolly, a Frederick Forsyth (the original master), and, for light entertainment, Jasper Fforde (The Fourth Bear) and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors, short fiction and poems. Gaiman is a genius, but he can't write poetry to save himself.

Well, that's me more or less up to date. I'm enjoying judging the online poetry competition, and I get pleasure from hitting the no button for some of the awfulness that some people try to pass off as poetry, but even more pleasure when I read something I say yes to. If only because it's a far less common experience. Any halfway decent poet of my acquaintance could win this competition!