Today I have set a new personal hula-hooping record. It doesn’t really compare to what is going on in Sochi, but I have never aspired to be a professional athlete. I hooped to the whole of the Cranberries 1992 album, Everyone’s Doing It, So Why Can’t We? It’s on tape and getting rather squeaky, so I guess at some point I shall buy the CD. Hooping was off the agenda during and for a while after labyrinthitis, but I’m getting back in the groove now. Generally I hoop for around three tracks, and to date ABBA has been my hooping music of choice. But the Cranberries was somehow streets better, and I went imto a sort of meditative mode in the middle of the sitting room floor, then suddenly realised I had been hooping for forty minutes. At that point, reaching the end of the album became a goal.
Other high points of the week include MasterB sleeping in the bed I got for him a while ago. Up to now he has explored it, checked out the interior, sniffed it thoroughly, removed a piece of the whicker it is made from. But this week he has climbed inside and settled down for extensive naps. It creaks when he moves, which is rather nice; a sort of musical accompaniment to his sleep.
We have a poetry festival here in Southwark at the moment. Not that we know much about it where I live. It is organised through the libraries, and ours has been closed since February after a devastating fire in the Old Town Hall next door. I found out about it by chance and nabbed a ticket to see John Hegley on Thursday night. It was great fun and I have been singing Luton Bungalow and Guillemot ever since. He and Billy Bragg are on the same continuum I think, a few stops apart. At the end, he invited all the glasses wearers – his tribe – to get up and dance with him and swap glasses so they could see the world in a different way. I thought of Speccy and the other McSpecs.
I couldn’t avail myself of the special price copies of his books, complete with autograph, as I left my purse at home, a mistake I shan’t make next week when I go to the same venue to hear Sophie Hannah, Fleur Adcock and others read from a new anthology, The Poetry of Sex.