Sunday 25 September 2011

To go, or not to go.

Last week I received a phone call. It was a member of staff calling from East Barnet Library. My first response was well I'm pretty sure I owe my local library a huge fine for overdue library books but East Barnet Library..? A bit out of my way.

The gentleman said 'Did you enter a poetry competition at East Barnet Library?'

'Probably,' I replied, which was true, but sounded dumb. I have, after all, entered quite a few competitions over the Summer. And there was something familiar about the name East Barnet.

'Can you remember the name of the poem you entered?'

'Er no.' Again, an honest, but stupid-sounding, response. He must think I am a moron. I am a moron.

'Would it have been called "Lifting the lid"?'

'Oh yes!' I say (duh!). 'That one.'

'Well it came runner up in our competion.'

'Really? Oh great.'
(Well, what else can you say when you're mouthing "shut up" at the kids who are beating each other to a pulp (very loudly) on the stairs, while the dog is barking dementedly up and down the hall.)

'We'd like you to come and collect your prize from the poet, Sarah Wardle on xxxxx and read out your poem at our performance poetry evening.'

Er. Did someone say read out my poem? Oh no. no. no. no. no. Did I say no? That was a NO.

'Are you free that evening?'

'Weeell...let me just check the calendar...turning the page...No. Sorry. Can't possibly....I have my course that night...we've only just started the term...would be very difficult...we're a long way away...'

'Oh.'

I have just broken the man's heart.

'Oh.' He says again. He will hate me forever. I will be ostracised from the poetic community for life. And probably throughout the afterlife.

'But if I manage to fix it so that I'm able to come, I'll call you back.' Bugger. Why did I say that?

I AM NOT GOING TO READ MY POEM IN FRONT OF AN AUDIENCE. I DON'T EVEN LIKE MY POEM. IT IS CRAP. I CAN'T DO IT. PEOPLE ARE SCARY. I DON'T DO THINGS LIKE THAT. THEY DO NOT EVEN SELL ALCOHOL IN A LIBRARY. (I can dance after three pints of Stella, so I assume I could probably read poetry too, even if very badly.)

'Right. Well it would be really good if you could come.'

Resist. Resist. Resist. But be polite. 'Ok, well if I change my plans I'll call.' Damn.

I get off the phone. Damn. Damn. Damn.

As Morrisey would say:
"Shyness is nice
Shyness can stop you
from doing all the things in life you want to...'"

Bugger.

I'm going to have to phone him back again.