Reviewing poetry books - a new thing

My first foray into this kind of thing is out now in esteemed poetry magazine, The North, issue 60.

Here you will find my thoughts on recent books from Ahren Warner (Hello, your promise has been extracted), Rory Waterman (Sarajevo Roses), and Menna Elfyn (Bondo).

The Museum of Walking

Great name for an organisation, no? And doing interesting things with walking and words - the art is taking part - as its byline goes. As more than a bit of a flaneuse myself, I was pleased to take part in a Wednesday morning haiku writing workshop with Andrew Stuck recently.

A dozen folk of wide ranging ages, we strolled very slowly in the heat from Holland Park tube station through the park, with the Kyoto garden as our destination. At various points en route, we stopped to hear about things as various as a potted history of haiku (naturally), this part of London as nineteenth century artists' colony (many of the pre-Raphaelites lived here), and the silver lime's ability to resist climate change by turning its leaves against the sun. Fascinating.

Writing haiku in rapid fire was a good challenge and I surprised myself as to how quickly I can do this. Interesting, as it's not my usual form. The results are available for downloading and folding into a little booklet - very Japanese - here.

The Kyoto garden's looking a little sick this summer - as in so many lovely gardens, even the trees (acers) are dying. Rain, please. And soon.

Becoming a Trustee of Spread the Word

It's essential that not for profit organisations seek financial guidance, but it's not inevitable that I am necessarily interested in replacing my old paid work with new unpaid work in the same field. Note to self: I have retired to focus on, inter alia, my writing. However, there are some things that one cannot and I will not say no to -  Spread the Word I'm glad to say, is one of them.

Developing writing talent in the city I call home is very close to my heart. So, it was with very great pleasure that last month I accepted the honour of being appointed a trustee of this wonderful organisation.

Please do check out our workshops, events and projects supporting and nurturing writers of all kinds and from all the diverse backgrounds which make up the marvel that is London. Sign up, turn up, submit, buy books, make new friends and learn new writing approaches. You'll be learning from the best.

Cristo -The Mastaba on the Serpentine

The light plays tricks on your eyes as the red barrels making up the sides of Cristo's first ever installation in the UK seem to be a different colour to their ends. It's not the case. This summer we learn what a mastaba is - a bench, originating in Mesapotamia. The temporary floating scuplture looks more like a decapitated pyramid or iceberg. Take your pick. With it's carefully planned minimal environmental impact is a giant something; part comment on global warming perhaps, part challenging building blocks - grown up lego, part, well, fun.

The best view is across the reeds near the Diana fountain. It grew on me as I walked around the lake, yet I found the pedallos and rowing boats, the typical things floating there, a distraction. I'd rather have seen it alone and colourfully menacing in the water, but that's what happens when you try to introduce art on this scale in the centre of the city. Worth a trot passed, but don't make a special trip.

The end of Ms Corporate, the beginning of Ms Full Time Writer

I walk out of the office for the last time, early, as there is precious little point hanging around with nothing to do. It’s a sunny and actually hot afternoon. London looks oddly different. That might be because my head is held high and I am actually looking at the city’s architecture for once, not scurrying home with my eyes on the chewing gum spotted pavement.

It feels like the day I left school: other girls were crying, for reasons I simply couldn’t fathom. I veritably skipped down the school driveway with a huge sense of relief. No more stupid rules controlling my days. After 35 years of heavy duty consulting work, there are again no more stupid rules or obligations, ever. I feel completely relieved of all responsibilities for anyone or anything other than myself. Hurrah.

I’ve dreamed of this for years, on every one of those days I toiled through ten hours at a desk plus at least a two hour commute on a packed train or Tube. I realise I am lucky, a tail-end baby boomer with the benefit of a good education. But wait, I’m not going to feel guilty about hanging up my calculator, I’ve worked my arse off, tolerated years of misogyny, having to work so much harder and better than the men around me, and butted my head against the reinforced glass ceiling until it bled.

I’ve bought a house, privately educated two children – my choice – and earned enough to save for a modestly rainy day. I’m 56, tired of dealing with other people’s unchanging and repeated BS, - it's not the work, it's never the work, it's the people, Sartre's hell, and so I am unfurling my umbrella.

Colleagues, who don’t know me at all, think I am mad. ‘What are you going to do with yourself’ is the crassest of questions, and in recent weeks I have been sorely tempted to say something, but I’m too well brought up. So, what am I going to do with myself?

Starting tomorrow morning I am going to catch up on my sleep. A long lie in with a samovar of tea and the cracked spine of a new book is in order. My father reminded me he slept for almost a month when he retired. He advises planning to do very little until I am better. I wonder how long it will take me to feel normal again, assuming, of course, I actually recognise what that is.

Our unhealthy sleep patterns are forever in the news and, as a chronic insomniac,  I am looking forward to no stress, interrupted nights, lighter circles around my eyes, and getting out of bed actually eager for the day.

Second is doing something about myself. I mean fitness and weight. Decades of sitting have left me with accountant’s bottom, and having my time eaten up by work means I am hopelessly, and possibly dangerously, unfit. A recent blood test told me I had elevated cholesterol and my GP said the word statins to me. I seldom walk 10,000 steps a day and riding my bike for five minutes in each direction to the Tube does not count for anything.

I’m not proud of this, but quite when you are supposed to swim, or go to the gym, or whatever when you have had a job like mine, children and a home to run, has been a mystery. So, it’s no more cheese sandwiches, crisps and four o'clock sweeties for me. I am going to fix the cholesterol with diet and exercise. I just need to figure how. Friends are telling me to use a personal trainer. I’ll let you know how that goes, once I locate my nearest gym.

Hidden London - new statue, way overdue

Women have been hidden in London for centuries; our contribution to the nation's life often ignored. I hope this putting right of history's wrongs is just the start of it.

It's about time there was a statue of a woman in Parliament Square, not her with the handbag obviously, that would have been a poor choice and would have attracted ire and admiration in uneven amounts. No, here is the compromise candidate in the centenary of women's suffrage, Millicent Fawcett, founder of the Suffragists, as opposed to the Suffragettes.

I would have preferred Emiline, but hey, violence is always unrewarded, unless you are a man. I note the statues of Smuts and Churchill over my shoulder.

Picasso, 1932 - Tate Modern

If you've ever had the sacrilegious thought about how much work artists actually do, then take a look at the volume produced in just one year, 1932.

This summer's block buster is a fascinating assemblage and survey of Picasso's oevre, including earlier works from the retrospective he had in Paris that year. An astonishing output and variety of paintings and sculptures, and this is only some of it.

Major chapeau. Don't miss it, but deep breath, it's going to be crowded at whatever time you choose to go.  Just try not to find the guy who thinks it's totally OK to stand it front of you because he has to take a photograph.