Whatever comes to mind before I alter it with the overpaint of time. Mostly satire, poetry and fiction but occasional unreliable fact, as all facts seems to be today. From deepest Notting Hill. London.
Monday, 26 July 2010
Grayson Perry Arrives at Port Eliot.
I'd been sitting outside the bar tent when a strange apparition rumbled into view, a small crowd gathered, including a BBC camera. I wandered over to take a look:
I met Grayson briefly later at the performers party where he was more formally dressed and again the following day sitting out on the grass in a summer frock and red shoes. He didn't come to hear my poems though. Never mind.
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