Saturday, I am the last one up and I am met on the stairs by my partner carrying warm drinks. We drink them in the lounge, and I make myself a muesli breakfast. I spend time rebooting the printer and after much juggling of ignorance and button pushing, I manage it. I run off the poems for this afternoon and put them neatly in order in a folder so that I can read them easily at the poetry stanza meeting. Before lunch I drive my partner to the local charity shop to drop off some clothes. Our charity shop of choice is “Sod the Aged” as it is affectionately known in our household. We drive home and have a quick lunch before I go to the office and log on via Zoom to the Stanza meeting.

There are about 12 of us online. People read out other people’s poems and then the group talk about them for ten minutes, after which the poet can comment. Its an interesting process. There is one man’s poetry that really grabs me and I always try to be the person who reads his poem. He seems the most poetic to me as he seems to be able to create powerful feelings and vivid images. It is poetry that I feel at a gut level. Much of the rest is good as well but I think the dissection that takes place is more projection, agenda and competition. I don’t give a fuck about rhyme and assonance and all the other bollocks that gets talked about, it’s just poetry industry jargon to keep the plebs out, I’m only interested in how it makes me feel and whether it rattles my inner universe in some way. I add bits of my own so I suppose I am being drawn into the dialogue I dislike. By the end I have had enough. The next meeting is going to be face to face in the local Quaker meeting house before Christmas, which I am looking forward to. People in the flesh are always best, mostly.

I go from poetry to watching England versus the All Blacks. It’s a good match that ends in a draw, which is a relative scarcity in the rugby world at international level. My partner and I eat tea and then settle down to watch Strictly. It’s getting competitive now as there no clear duffers left so who ever goes next will be a reasonable dancer. Strictly comes to an end and I change into me training gear determined to get a session in today. Cancer never rests and neither does Rocket, except on Sundays after the weigh in. I get into the garage and climb onto the rower, its 9 degrees, winter is coming. I do half an hour at my regular level with Rammstein loud in my ears. Its a typical end of week session, the fatigue is beginning to show. I do less then 6000 metres and burn less than 400 calories. It will have to do, I’ve no more to give.

I retrieve my laptop from the lounge and retreat to bed to draft the blog. Once done I shall take my meds and sleep. Tomorow is weigh in day, rest day and in the case of this particular tomorrow it is the start of the World Cup. I know that I shall get hooked despite all my good intentions.