26

Me and my beard are due to read some poetry at a charity open mic one of the people on before me does a hilarious ranting poem about how he hates poets with beards, based on the premise that they are only taken seriously because of the beard. He smiles and nods at me as my turn comes. I smile and nod in return. He is from Hull. I am not, although I have visited.

We appear to have been double-booked with a rally for one of the main parties in the election and for 10 minutes the entertainment gets put to one side for the serious stuff. There is an admirable passion but the crowd are restive; its not what they came for, although almost all of them later say that they will be voting for that party, come the day. A strange intermission to the converted.

 

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