Back from Warwick, which George described as the Las Vegas of the Midlands. (George lied.) On the whole a rather obnoxiously resounding success. For one–and you can probably see my priorities here–the surroundings were cushy as all hell, in a soulless conference hotel kind of way, which for my tired student eyes was the best kind of soulless of all. George and Clarissa, Agi, and I were all put up in a hotel on campus; George and Clarissa’s room was at the opposite end of the hallway from Agi’s and mine, which gave us the distinct feeling of kids on holiday getting their own rooms. I thought about jumping on the bed and prank-calling room service, but just lazed around not wearing trousers and clicking through bad late-night movies instead. It was grand.
And the event itself was fantastic. The two events, students and teachers, were in the same venue, so blended into one mega-event with a large interval in the middle. It was a really interesting set-up, with the students and then professors, and one I think should be done more often. I think an outside observer would have been able to tell which students were grouped together–definitely which students went to which university–because there were certain tics of style each group seemed to encourage. (This isn’t always a bad thing.) Although Agi and I write very differently, now that I’m thinking about it; I suppose our tics are our stunning good looks, brilliant writing, and extremely shiny hair. In yet another example of how I’m steadily becoming a grumpy(-er) old(-er) git (er…), I thought the Birmingham students were uniformly lovely, talented, and endearingly nervous. Then I found out they were all in their first or second years of university, so basically fresh out of the womb, and wanted to pinch their little cheeks and knit them mittens.
Anyway, so my ego sufficiently fed, the second reading was marvellous. I’d never heard Luke Kennard or Zoe Brigley before, and liked both of them, especially Zoe–she opened with an English/Welsh retelling of the Blodeuwedd myth. I meant to corner her afterwards and ask if she’d read The Owl Service, but didn’t get round to it; lucky her. And the obligatory drink afterwards in the soulless conference hotel bar, but with great company–a Nigerian poet George knows, and two Warwich alum/tutors, respectively, who I would hate and despise for being very very good poets, but unfortunately I discovered I really like them both. Nerts.
Enormous breakfast the next day, where we all ate far too much. They hid things in little crannies, so I went back with every intention of closing my meal with some refreshing fruit and yogurt, but then found the vat of porridge hidden behind the mini-cereal boxes (is anything more encouraging of one’s larcenous tendencies than a hotel, I wonder? I turn into someone’s senile grandmother, shoving anything packaged into my handbag) and everything went a bit wrong. A nice drive back to Norwich, where George scared the pants off Agi and I by informing us that SOMEONE ACTUALLY FAILED THEIR PHD IN THE VIVA HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, and I was dropped off virtually at my front door. I may never be able to do a reading again.
