As the one oâ€™clock mums race their prams round Wandsworth Park, she suddenly falters, breathless, and â€“ staring down at Archieâ€™s gurgling face â€“ thinks bleakly of sports days to come.
by Wolf Orff
Gary Geistler knew he was probably sane. But who in their right mind would turn out for a poetry gig in Mortlake on a bitter Thursday evening in late January? Heâ€™d been promised a third of the door money. Heâ€™d be lucky if it stretched to a large glass of Chardonnay. [read more…]