sufficient unto the Day 89 is the evil thereof

January 27, 2010

or “the punishment of a poet who let them talk him into “producing” his own work.

Through the third circle of Hell – the jousting corporate logos – the fourth circle of unconfirmed pledges…

My head’s so full of stuff. Went shopping in Tesco and just spaced out staring at all the packets and tins. Kevin and Noyumi rescued me, gently pointing me the way to the veggie stock-cubes.

The counting of the coins, the entries in the ledgers. Yes, today, we have been doing the SOUTHWARK MYSTERIES accounts for our group’s AGM. And yes, our books do balance! I may be a poet. I’m also the son of a chartered accountant: when entrusted with other people’s money, I’m fastidious to the point of irritating even myself – every last penny accounted for.

Ms K spends the day (and much of the evening) patiently coding the individual entries in our quarterly records so as to transfer them to the broad categories of our annual report. And apart from a few minor panics – a double entry from our bank account and petty cash – all ship-shape and Bristol fashion!

Yes, it is boring – neither of us enjoy doing it one jot – but done it must be, that our group’s finances be transparent, and that we know exactly what funds have been used for what.

Indeed a great deal of this whole production lark is, in my undeniably jaundiced opinion, indescribably boring – to the extent that one finds oneself pondering the meaning of the word “soul-destroying” and understanding why so many people who do this kind of thing for a living are so… well… frustrated and angry.

When I was much younger, I’d sometimes work in offices to subsidise my other lives as poet and performer. These days I tend to write and perform to support my office work.

So now, when it all gets too much, like about an hour ago, I go for a walk around the best block in town – up to Borough tube, then left along Marshalsea Road, right up Redcross Way, right again along Southwark Street, and again right to cut back down Borough High – circumambulating the holy ground of Crossbones Yard, the place of the skull, my cruel-to-be-kind companion, my reminder that all is vanity…

I can just about see the funny side. And tomorrow is, as they say, another day.

12 days already gone,  scratched on the wall of my cell, below the little barred window.



  1. Oh frabjous joy . . . (:

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: