I read in last week’s PP Blogs that Ms Challis seems justifiably put out that I have not been able to take my usual comfortable seat at the head of the table in the Library at Questor’s. The problem is that the piles of empty Easter Egg boxes lie about me dark and deep and even, and I have promises to keep, and I have promises to keep. Lynchpin and doyen of the Ealing Literary scene I may be, but like the self-satisfied looking lady in the painting by John Pettie which hangs in Kelvingrove Art Gallery in Glasgow, I have several strings to my bow.
My somewhat itinerant upbringing in the care of my never less than fastidiously secretive parents saw me parcelled up like a bundle of washing and shipped from location to location as assignments demanded. While I was eventually sent to a hideous and never-to-be-mentioned school somewhere in the barren wastes of the North of Scotland, I was never able to quite shake my spook heritage. It hangs upon my shoulders like a deep-fried albatross.
Unlikely as it may seem, we agents of the secret services find it necessary, indeed even enjoy getting together on occasion. Our political masters may shake their heads in disbelief, but they have their underserved shindigs in places such as Davos, and we have, well, we have other places.
It would have been impossible to maintain a covert conflict as lengthy and intense as, for example, The Cold War, if opposing intelligence professionals were unable to get together to share information. The people who attend are never less than professional and are not there to gabble state secrets. However, fashion tips, such as the gabardine overcoat that just every spy is sporting this year, or the brogues that can be worn all day without discomfort, that kind of intel is essential. It goes without saying that these events attract the usual arms suppliers, with Walther, Glok, Ruger, Smith and Wesson and even Super Soaker joining the discreet arms fair which takes place in one of the chosen hotel’s larger rooms.
It is only becoming of each secret agent to cultivate their own peculiar aspects and tastes. Choice of clothing, weapons, wine, food, cigarettes and automobiles are all part of the secret agent’s milieu. ‘Standard issue’ is not in our vocab, and while budgets are finite, it is well known that Aston Martin would have disappeared sometime in the 1970’s without the support of wealthy, retired agents looking for a machine to blast away the cobwebs on a Sunday morning.
Equally, secrecy is one thing, but we all have careers to take care of. If our own government’s short-sighted politicians are making cuts to intelligence expenditure, the numbers in one’s little black book can be used to find an alternative source of income, just by sidling up to a high-rolling spy-master at the tea and biscuits during the show.
So, it would be impossible to develop or sustain the long-term, grumbling conflicts which the people of this planet so clearly enjoy without the intelligence professionals and the best practice recommendations on everything from insulated socks to wi-fi cracking software without these regular meet-ups, and this is one of the other strings to my bow. From time to time I am called upon to make a trip to an International destination, a discreet hotel or minor exhibition centre to join my comrades in espionage.
My comrades in poetry were well in attendance on one of the few Tuesdays which I have been able to spend in Ealing recently.
Christine Shirley brought us White Blossoms, a poem that celebrated the ephemeral beauty of blossoming trees. While the piece flirted with the structure of a sonnet, it remained uniquely its own. There was a consensus that with a nudge here and a tweak there, it might indeed fully blossom into a sonnet’s embrace.
Roger Beckett transported us to a Renaissance painter’s studio with a team talk that was as much about artistry as it was about camaraderie. The poem cleverly wove footballing lingo into the studio details, leaving us amused and intrigued. We found ourselves longing for more painterly references to complement the veiled nods to the beautiful game.
Martin Choules presented a rather intriguing discussion on the architectural preferences of the devil himself. With a witty exploration of styles from Brutalism to Gothic, the poem invited us to consider what structures might catch the eye of Satan. It was a conversation starter, to say the least.
Nick Barth candidly confessed to indulging in magazine reading, setting the stage for potential shock value. However, the twist in his poem this week steered us away from scandal and toward a rather unexpected revelation, leaving us all somewhat relieved and slightly entertained.
By now I suspect I may have piqued your interest as to where I have been and what exactly I have been up to. Clearly there is very little concerning this year’s Spring meet-up which I can tell you. We have secured rooms in quite a grand hotel in one of Europe’s more bijou capital cities. As is traditional at this time of year I have been asked to organise the Easter Egg hunt. Some of the world’s greatest exponents of the arts of disguise and sleight of hand will push their skills to limit to locate chocolate eggs located throughout a large public building. This is a very popular event and is always very rewarding to watch, especially for yours truly. As usual, this year’s Easter Egg hunt has a twist. There are no Easter Eggs. In the world of espionage locating the prize is not the point. It is the search we find rewarding.
If you have been, thank you for searching.
The Pitshanger Poets 