One of those very rare days

where fortune seems entirely on your side. Friday, the last day of the Tower Poetry summer school I was at in Oxford since Tuesday. Cloistered away in Christ Church, hardly venturing out, the 14 of us (aged 18-23) had intensive workshops, ate at high table, and found a magical space to write.

By Friday, I had work I was more happy with than I have been for a long time. My mind is so over-active at points that I can't get calm enough to write. The workshops reminded me how to do it, how to forget the mad rush we so often are in. I read four poems out this morning, amongst those of the other thirteen people. The other problem I have is that I constantly tell myself I'm not as good as those around me, that I'll never measure up. It's a competitive streak which can be negative...as if all writing, or people, are only there to be judged against.

After that, by chance, I met some friends of friends, poet-types I'd heard about before . Had an aimless ramble through London, an aborted trip to the Poetry Cafe, and was exclusively happy. Nothing mattered but these unique, fantastic new people. One of those very rare, very perfect days.