I write to the sound of rain. My daughter just came home from school early because she was ‘walking in water’ she said, having decided to wear the boots with the holes in the soles today. I have given in and turned on the central heating in my glacial attic because although I find cold conducive to concentration up to a point, there is a time when it numbs the digits to the extent that they can no longer type the words.

 

I’m still on my poem-a-day and have rediscovered my alter-ego Mrs Smith, who is up to all kinds of shenanigans. The best thing about an alter-ego is that just like the imaginary friend, she can do and say whatever you might shrink from doing or saying yourself. My worry is that I’m being possessed by Mrs Smith, and she is a far from pleasant character. But a great cook.

 

Tonight I’m off to hear Seamus Heaney. He is not a well man, and I haven’t heard him read, so I thought I’d better go along. Wednesday night is Simon Armitage, the poetic woman’s crumpet, and one of the few male poets who doesn’t wear sandals and socks. I don’t fancy him myself, but he’s a fine poet and reads like a slightly recalcitrant schoolboy and he’s in a recently formed rock band.

 

Thursday is oh, another chance to go and see Leonard Cohen at the O2 Centre. I will wear my T shirt however cold it is.

 

And yesterday, we took the kids to see the Rothko exhibition at the Tate Modern. Well. Hmmm. I do like Rothko, but I think only in moderation. The kids felt the same, although they were fascinated in another gallery by Ofili’s ‘No Woman No Cry’, an elegaic painting dedicated to Stephen Lawrence, the murdered black teenager. They were intrigued by the elephant poo, but also the subject matter.

 

On Saturday night I’m off to the National Theatre to see another new play.

 

 

Whoah, this is London isn’t it? A joyful mish-mash of culture. I may be one of the luckiest people in the world.