Poetry Parcel

It is amazing how a course can terrify you at the beginning and I have more than once described writing poetry as being placed in restraints...and then you batch up the three assignments and commentaries along with the tutor reports and step into the post office. Okay, so it could have euphoria at completing the course but this was genuine.

The the rosy-cheeked post mistress looked at the parcel, took the payment and then asked whether the box was "full of poems". For a moment I was dim-witted enough not to understand how she knew and then remembered the label, stating the course subject on the outside.

I found myself standing in a little village post office waxing lyrical about how much work it had been, how rewarding it was and how worthwhile it it was. She was smiley, telling me about her little attempts as she called them. She jotted down the course book, Staying Alive, and I encouraged her to jot down the Open College Of The Arts and to look at the courses. She chuckled and found myself assuring her that it was a craft and you could learn it; with the tutors help and lots and lots of work.

I was genuinely walking on air when I stepped out of the shop. Strange this writing lark!