Ok, it wasn’t that high – but I’ll come to that later. First, my gig in Bridgnorth. It’s quite a way from where I live to Bridgnorth, but I don’t mind travelling for a gig, and I was top of the bill. It was a good evening, with some open mic’ers who have never performed before and several better-known poets, and even though it was in a pub (sometimes difficult, pubs) everyone was really attentive and appreciative – a good evening.
Apart from that, my week has been dominated by pears. I have never had so many pears from my tree before, and I’ve cooked and frozen pounds and pounds of them, until now I’m sick of the sight of pears – and still they keep coming. The rest will all go outside my gate, with a note inviting people to take them. Please.
I’ve very nearly finished painting the end wall of my house, and now I have a way to reach the very top, that I thought would have to be left to A Man. It should all be done this week. And I’ve finished pressure-washing the patio, and grouting the gaps between the bricks. If it saves me some weeding, it’s worth it, although it’s all been a bit of a palaver.
I’ve written three poems, too, which isn’t bad, and done a lot of PoL work, and quite a bit of running. I plan to enter a 10K race at the end of September, but I’m a bit worried about this now – the last few runs have seemed really difficult.
I saw Atomic Blonde, which had quite good reviews, but it was really just rubbish male fantasy stuff – lots of fights and some lesbian sex. Disappointing. The only redeeming point was that the two main female characters looked very different, which meant I could tell them apart easily; distinguishing between female characters is often a bit difficult for me, what with my prosopagnosia an’ all.
But on Saturday, I had my birthday present – a day’s paragliding taster session. And oh, it was wonderful – everything I’d hoped it would be. It was a long way to travel, and there was a lot of standing round waiting, and I have a really big bruise from pushing against the harness straps. But I had three flights with towed take-offs, and although I wasn’t allowed to release the tow rope, and I guess I didn’t go very high, each time it felt, for a few seconds, as if I were flying, and that was amazing. My fellow pupils were three other women, and we very quickly bonded into a good team, helping and supporting each other; and our instructor was endlessly patient.
There was one niggle, though. On the door between the café and shop at the paragliding club, a poem was etched – High flight, which as my reader will know was written by John Magee. But they hadn’t credited him. Shame on them. And now, having slipped the surly bonds of earth myself, this poem will mean even more to me than it did before. I have climbed sunward – or at least, hovered for a few seconds, before falling to the ground. But I did land on my feet, once.