Next year's sun

The phone in my hands trembled slightly (despite the three pints of what I thought was called "Good Old Ron" but was actually called "Good Old Boy") as I read one of my poems in public for the first time on Friday night. Choosing "Rubik" (which became "Rubiks' Cube" as the nerves hit me on stage) felt good as it was an old-ish poem that talks of past difficulties between two people. Although I missed it as I rushed off the stage as quickly as I possibly could; I was told in the pub afterwards that there was a collective "oooooo" from the audience at the end of my reading. (This may have been them registering their disgust at my besmirching of their memories of a beloved childhood toy; however this is unlikely as most of them are sixty plus...) Despite the fear and thousand butterflies that danced vigourously in my stomach, I'll do it again. Next time I won't stay out so late afterwards... No hangover could ruin yesterday's saunter to Sonning; on what must've been the last pleasant day of the year. 

I said that I'd get back to writing more frequently and I've done so. Having a clear mind is helping with the inspiration. It's been mentioned in the dispatches of my head that reflecting on life with today's drizzle hasn't be too helpful... November is going to throw in two weeks of sunshine alongside a lot of time being horizontal; that's got to be helpful, surely?

Goodbye old England, until next year's sun...