The last month has been blurred at the edges. Mist veiling the trees through my kitchen window. The heron stood stock still in it’s milk at Telegraph Hill Park. Mist obscuring the skyline when I wait for the Overground; the lights of towers smudgy. Fields and fields of pale mist on my early morning train up to the University of Essex. I feel like I’m in Ishiguro’s The Buried Giant, and ‘the mist’ is some kind of metaphor for our ignorance and confusion; the alternative facts of our newsfeeds.
When I’ve not been refreshing Twitter with an expression of horrified disbelief, 2017 has been quite nice for me so far. I enjoyed catching up with poetry people at the T.S. Eliot awards. Then Richard turned 40 and we had a big party with friends and dancing and drunkenness.
And of course, there are all the days with the children – the deep dark of 5am wakeups, Cate’s first tastes of fish finger and eggy bread, rivers of snot, row row your boat. Gruff has become a fan of Scooby Doo, so trying to get to anywhere at speed now involves me chasing him down the street howling like a ghost whilst he cries: ‘zoinks’. We made trips to the Elfin Oak in Kensington Gardens to see the little people carved into it (apparently called Brownie, Dinkie, Rumplelocks and Hereandthere); the aquarium; horse-riding; a puppet show about a baby penguin; a pirate-themed birthday party. We cut out lanterns for the Year of the Rooster and ate dumplings at our friend’s house. Killed long hours playing hospitals and sweet-shops and laying siege to a Playmobil castle.
Workwise, January meant marking. I have reviews in the latest Poetry Review and Poetry London, and an interview up about translating. A box of advance copies of my new book, Incarnation arrived, which will be out next month (details to follow…) I’m also judging the poetry for this year’s Northern Writers Awards and the deadline is TOMORROW (come on Northerners!! There’s still time!!) I’ll be selecting the people I’ll be mentoring over a year, with a mixture of one-to-ones, workshops and professional development, and if you’re more established there are Awards for Poetry too to help develop work in progress.
So lots to celebrate. But still, like most people, I find nothing quite feels normal. Gruff keeps saying uncanny sounding things like: ‘will we be people forever?’ or ‘I don’t want the world to end’ (although they’re probably just misquotes from a Pixar movie). I worry for my American friends, my European friends in the UK, my Somali friends.
Waiting for this awful, eerie whiteness to lift.