On the weekend we went to Hay on Wye where I practically bankrupted myself buying books.  I've been reading The Dragon Book, which is a book of short stories about - you guessed it - dragons.  I've been diligently making a note of the writers I'm enjoying as I go and consequently I had a nice little list of things I wanted to look for in the town of books.

I managed to get pretty much everything on my list, as well as things not on the list, like a very old and beautiful hardback edition of "Middlemarch" which I bought mainly because it was only £2.00.  I haven't read Middlemarch before.  When I get round to it I'll let you know how I get on.

Meanwhile I bought three books by Jonathan Stroud, two books by Robin McKinley and a book of poetry by E.E. Cummings.  I am rediscovering a bit of a love for poetry.  I used to write it all the time, and then I just sort of stopped.  I have a reasonably big back catalogue of poems that I still think are pretty good, but at some point I hope to re-steer my head in that direction and start dribbling out a few new ones.  Very cathartic, poetry.  And scary too.  It's the most naked you'll ever be on a page, I think.

Meanwhile Dan very kindly read my mini opera the night I needed to submit it, and struggled with it a bit.  I kept trying to explain it, but in the end I should have referred to Mr. Cummings.  He said this, and it applies:

Relax and give the play a chance to strut its stuff—relax, stop wondering what it is all 'about'—like many strange and familiar things, Life included, this play isn't 'about,' it simply is. . . . Don't try to enjoy it, let it try to enjoy you. DON'T TRY TO UNDERSTAND IT, LET IT TRY TO UNDERSTAND YOU.

Although I wouldn't have shouted the last bit at Dan.  I'm not sure that would have been entirely necessary.