There was a time when Mark was convinced – improbable though it may seem – that Don Quixote was so-called because he travelled on a donkey.  Never mind that the Spanish for donkey is ‘burro’, nor that the spelling has nothing to do with ‘donkey’; he thought it nonetheless.

But enough of all this donkeying about, let us return to last night at an actual Donkey, the one on Welford Rd.  I was poeting there last night before a couple of bands played to accompany the giving away of books for World Book night.  It was great fun: I did some local poems including The Bowstring Bridge and Richard III and they were well-received, though it did get rather hot once they inexplicably lit the wood-burning stove.  The jazz/blues band which followed were also good.

Argh no!  I’m listening to the Archers and it seems like Tom is going to bail on Kirsty.  I can’t believe it!  I feel almost as devastated as I did when Doc Martin left thingy standing at the altar.

Please don’t, Tom!

Kirk out



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