Wow, wow and thrice wow! Aglow right now from the first meeting of the Crawley Writers Group! And what a meeting it was. We sang, we soared, we expressed ourselves, we created anew. Things emerged which, I firmly believe, could not have been uncovered alone. #aliveandcreating!
Keith: But my favourite piece of the night had to be Peter’s silent poem. Best thing you’ve ever done Pete, though I thought 3 mins was a bit long. You could have got it down to two by not speaking a bit faster!
Keith on Blue's poetry: Something about finding your soulmate in a mirror, then the mirror shatters and a dead crow plummets out of the sky into a black pond, which it turns red with blood. Totally flew over my head. But it sounded great. Really gloomy and negative. Loved it!
Keith on book signings: Write their name above your signature if you must, but when they start asking you to sign it to their children and their parents and their pets, just remind them that you’re a professional writer and you charge by the word. That’ll soon shut them up!
You limp over to hug me, like Quasimodo, still dragging that stupid lead weight. I can smell the beer on your breath, and something else. A certain perfume I recognise! I fight you off. We get into a tangle. I stab you in the bottom with my fascinator, then run away.
1/2 Alice to Tom: You didn't provide any salad! No metter, you say. No mitter! Your accent is wandering drunkenly all over Central Europe and the Balkans. Vee ken improvize! you say as you toss cubes of Tesco ‘salad cheese’ onto a bed of iceberg ripped from a bag.
2/2 No tomatoes, no cucumber, no – and this is the real killer – no olives! The one ingredient I said was most important. Peekled onions? you offer with a sheepish grin. I think that’s when I start to cry.
The bottom of the barrel was scraped when I came back from the loo to find you putting a novelty Curry'n'Chips flavoured condom (presumably from a pub vending machine) onto a cucumber and giggling like a schoolboy.
I don't know why I let you stay but, my bad, I did, watching you plough your way through a bottle of Pinot Grigio and endure your unsubtle passes
Then my weekly Fruit and Veg box arrived. An avalanche of puerile innuendos ('Fantastic melons!', 'That's a nice pear!' etc.) followed
Message from Tom:
Hey Bluesy Blooooooo
Lookinfg forwra to seeing yopooooooooo
sorry runnig a bit late - Jon bumped into me in pub and he seemed a bit lowly and loneley so I treated him to an ale
More of the group's jokes about Peter's IKEA piece:
Blue: 'The alun key represents the tender indifference of the universe, is that right?'
Keith: 'You can pay people to build these things for you now, you know.'
Peter's collected everyone's jokes about his IKEA monologue, to wit (he uses the word here 'wit' loosely):
Tom: 'Nice one Peter, did you put that together yourself?'
Alice: 'Sometimes I see my opening line as a flat-pack unit with one vital screw missing'
Tom:
Hey Bluey Blu
Wow.
I’ve never not done that before. I mean I’ve not done that loads of times – I’m not doing it now in fact. But I’ve not done it with you. Not like that.
Dare I hope that we might not do that again some time? Just you and me – not doing it?
Peter: second second second second second second second secon [initial group fidgeting and throat-clearing] d second second second second second second second second second second second second second second second second second second second second second second second second se
Peter: It has come to my attention that Alice experienced distress at the thought that her group was not a success. I think Alice’s concerns are partially misplaced – the heating was only a couple of degrees too high, snacks were more adequate than one had been led to believe.
Peter: The word I repeated was not silence but second, Julia. This Freudian lapsus on your part constitutes an additional element of interest to the oeuvre to my mind, even as it casts doubt on the sincerity of the reactions you delineated in your last email.