I joined The Poetry Society last week.
It’s my version of a mid-life crisis. I didn’t buy a motor cycle or a sports car when I hit mid-life crisis time, and I avoided the leather trouser and ponytail look, so I decided it was acceptable. To be fair, it wasn’t a logical decision – it was all based on practicality.
With my bad knee and generous proportions I’m not going to fit into a sports car or (more importantly) get out of one. Same goes for leather trousers.
I no longer have the follicular fortitude for a ponytail, so that was out, and it only left the motor cycle. Harley-Davidson do a very reasonable finance plan, which is tailored to the needs of a middle-aged men who wants to demonstrate both machismo and economy.
Julia looked at me resignedly, as she does.
Married men will know that look.
After a few years I finally found the ideal thing to demonstrate my bohemian credentials with economy, and avoid people pointing at me in the street. Membership of the Poetry Society is available from £22 a year. Well, basic membership is. Full membership is £37. Well, almost. That’s actually the concessionary price. It cost me £43 in the end.
£22 to £43 in one swift movement. And they say poets have no regard for business. Ha!
When it arrived there was a healthy clunk from the package, containing a magazine the size of a book and a load of papers. I’ve not looked yet as, in my experience, such stuff is hardly ever worth reading. I’ll read the Poetry Review later.
Meanwhile I’m fascinated by the membership card. Yes, a credit card sized card for my wallet. You wonder how Wordsworth and Byron managed without a card and a laptop.
With that now safely tucked away between my TESCO card and my RSPB card I can finally begin being “mad, bad and dangerous to know”.