Back from a week’s break in the Peak District – the excuse being that it was our daughter’s 21st birthday and she’s at University up there. Beautiful part of the world, and the sun even shone on the day we climbed Mam Tor. Nice one, God.
However, despite having plenty of time to let the mind wander, I didn’t manage to come up with as many ideas for stories (or even poems) as I’d hoped. I did manage to tie together most of the loose ends in one piece in time to finish it off in time for today’s deadline, but I’m still without either a story or a poem for Round Seven of the Whittaker Prize, and we’re over halfway through the fortnight.
As far as the Whittaker is concerned, I’m still (just) hanging on in sight of the leader in the story section, but things took a bit of a turn for the worse in the poetry in Round Six. I’d managed to lead the poetry section for the first five rounds, without really knowing how. And then I read this article about sonnets in the Independent, and I thought “Ooh, I’d like to write one of them”. So I did. And proceeded to come a serious cropper, scoring a stonking 59/100. However, on the bright side, it’s probably the first poem that I’ve ever written that Mrs P has really liked, which counts for quite a lot – especially as it is a love poem of sorts. Altogether now: aaah.