So this is the south bank blog. The first one. I swear to tell the spoof the whole spoof and nothing but the spoof. So help me. Speak your mind - or lose it. Alternatively it could be a place where I roll with it - a sort of blog roll.
Been away for a week teaching poetry in the home of late John Osborne the playwright, with sixteen adult students. They must be nuts! It is so good to be home in Londonium. There’s a tube strike today which gave the bike ride through central London added pleasure and zing.
I got some post today, a box of organic chocolate with the note
Dear Lemn I hope these give as much pleasure as your letter gave XXXX. I can't thank you enough!
XXXX is in chemotherapy at the moment and the letter was from her daughter. 10.30am, The Head Of Literature and I check out the venue for 24 Hour Party People? called The Spirit Level . It’s The Royal Festival halls newest venue soon to be opened by The Queen. I’ll tell you more about the event another time. It’s on November 9th. After this Head Of Literature suggests I might see a performance in The Chelmsford Rooms in the RFH at 11am. Coolio. We enter the room on the fourth floor (?)to landscape views of The Houses of Parliament and The Thames. Five musicians are setting up and one actor is sat upon his chair.
The lead musician, for want of a more democratic term, is Fraser Trainer. His smile widens ‘are you lemn Sissay’ he says. I am aware of his talent as a musician and composer but up till this moment never met him and had no idea what he looked like, nor did I know he’d be here. Fraser Trainer composed a concerto featuring violin by Victoria Mullova which was inspired by my poem Advice For The Living and performed at The BBC Proms at the Royal Albert Hall. He was not shy of telling people at the time that Advice was the inspiration for his piece giving me a BBC boost mid year 2005 at the proms.
This arts centre gathers coincidence. The musicians strike up the actor improvises and we the audience listen and enjoy. You just had to be there to get it. Get it. I scoot back to here – the office - I am hot desking which means take whatever desk you can. The phone says OUT OF SERVICE which is probably a good thing. Lack of phone concentrates the mind. My own mobile has no answer machine which though frustrating for message monkeys is liberating to me.
I take lunch at 12.30am and see Joel Morris comedy writer novelist and anchor reviewer on Simon Mayo’s Radio Five, Book Review where I guest reviewed just a few weeks ago. I take a seat at Eat and see the the gorgeous Malika B with Karen McCarthy who are both on their weekly sojourn to The Poetry Library where they spend the day writing. The sun is shining and the weather is sweet. These two people are a buzz!
It is here I’m meeting Owen from marketing. I knew Owen in Manchester, a strong and concentrated guy with a breakthrough smile. Back at the office I see Mary King the astounding Voice Coach who has just said an emotional goodbye to Carmen Jones and is preparing for more work with Paco Pena this weekend.
I am thinking that maybe I should wear a t shirt that says anything you say may be taken down in the blog. Maybe not. This is just the beginning. There’s no form to my input. Maybe one will develop, maybe it won’t - It is neither a diary nor journal but something altogether different. Altogether now.
At my desk later in the afternoon I over here a conversation.... about the office environment... "you tell me have you ever seen such a working environment for creatives...." it continues"....battery hens and the walkway is where we roll like freshly delivered eggs..." and continues "it clucks me off". The chocolates. One of the workers takes one "there might not be enough space but there's always space for chocolate" she says and the matter melts away.
The sun is out! I walk outside and meet Miriam to discuss a children's reading I am doing for the poetry Library at The Spirit Level on October 4th and then I get on me bike heading for a biscuit towpath over gingerbread bridges by a canal filled with chocolate until reaching a liquorice allsorts town called Hackney.