Snorts of laughter

I feel like a real writer now. Mama Tokus is in a Travelodge garret, paid for by Apples & Snakes and I’m slaving over a hot laptop on a wifi connection.

I’ve left this (happily) bland room a couple of times, but not much. I’m enjoying the thrill of being up close to London but not connecting with it.

I know I’m a real writer because I’ve done little writing, choosing to avoid the work I’ve got to do. I’ve Googled dining spots, I’ve checked emails, Facebooked and remotely worked. Spotify’s provided the daytime entertainment. Whilst at night I visited Bistrotheque to watch my Tuk Tuk Cabaret pals the Ladies of Pleasure take part in a show dedicated to new work, called Under Construction, which was outstanding.

I ain’t done much poetry. Lucky really, because not much is required. We’ve got a couple of minutes to fill, which sounds like a breeze.

Our work is to be aired in the windless tunnels of Shunt this week, in an experiment to fuse clubbing and poetry.

So my addled mind went straight for the drugs. I’m in good literary company: Lord Byron, Will Self, William Burroughs, Hunter S Thompson.

So I will be following my nose later on today, when I endeavour to make up a whole deal of poetry wraps – enough for a few lines each – and travel cross-town to deliver them to Mrs Big: Hannah Ringham.

If I don’t get there this afternoon, it’s because I’ve been busted.