A quiet week. Other than celebrating these sunny days with bicycle rides along lanes brimming with cowparsley, I've spent most of the time doing that thing all writers have to do eventually: write. Five projects to complete, five days to do it... even a dyscalculate like me can do the math. (Odd word, isn't it. Why has maths morphed into transatlantic singular these days?) (And another thing: why gist but jest - and then why gesture?)

And! you heard it first here: while everyone else was punditting Claire to win, this was the blog that held out for Lee, now Alan Sugar's chosen Apprentice of the year. Now if I could only be bothered to tune into BB I could see if my early pick of cross-dressing Mikey was similarly perspicacious...

'I once out-poeted the town cryer at the Hay on Wye festival' confessed, or maybe bragged, Rose Flint at the final gathering of the Words@Frome Festival meeting, a very relaxed affair in Rosie's garden. Rose has just scooped the top prize at the Cardiff International Poetry Competition so she is entitled to brag, tho she would never be so bold. We were on the topic of Soapbox Poets, Rosie's innovation for the first Saturday, in our countdown process to the big week in July. I'm off to Skyros tomorrow, returning just as our simmering festival plans come to the boil.

So there will now be a short intermission. And I'm off to pack suitable clothes for writing on a Greek island....
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