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Held in the garden of the Bent Anchor Hotel in Camford on a mild evening in October, it was Rob Stannard's first literary party. Rob had been invited because he'd been a prize-winner in the 'Autocars Booksellers' annual poetry competition, held the previous month. He'd brought along his mentor from the Scribblers, Peter Gulliver. Alone in such distinguished company he'd have felt out of his depth and Peter, he knew, had done it all before.

Peter introduced him to a female colleague from the university.

"This is Rob Stannard," he said.

"What do you do?" she asked.

"I'm a poet," replied Rob.

She gave such a forced laugh of disbelief, she toppled backwards into a flower bed, spilling her drink all over the front of her blouse.

"Hells bells," she muttered, as Peter helped her to her feet, "do people still write poetry nowadays?"

Peter wandered off in the direction of the bar to get her another drink. Rob asked her why she'd reacted like that.

"You can't say you're a poet if you only write poems."

Not understanding what she meant, Rob thanked his lucky stars he hadn't told her his profession, taxidermist; she might have gone off into orbit.

The woman moved on, and so did Rob. A member of the staff of 'Autocars' who'd remembered him from the prize-giving ceremony introduced him to Ariadne Thrungebuckle, the guest of honour. Tall, coiffed and gowned, she appeared ready to be led out of a sloth of boredom.

Rob, eager as ever, said, "I recognise that fox stole, it's one of mine!"

Ariadne recoiled in astonishment, "I didn't know that."

"Ah, there's much about me you don't know."

"Really."

"Not only do I stuff animals, I write poetry," he boasted.

The look on Ariadne's face said it all: 'either this nerd gets lost, or I'm going to be sick', but she politely replied, "How excruciatingly fascinating."

The conversation was definitely losing momentum. It was clear that writers of her stature weren't interested in Rob's modest literary breakthrough, but he persisted.

"My entry in the 'Autocars' competition has been published by Hobble and Stumble, the same people who bring out your work."

Ariadne looked around in desperation, hoping to see someone upon whom she could off-load this, this idiot. Rob followed her gaze.

"Isn't that our publisher over there? I think I recognise him from the telly, last year's Booker Prize do, if I'm not mistaken."

"Why yes, that's dear Godfrey Periwinkle, would you like to meet him?" she said, firmly grasping Rob by one elbow and propelling him determinedly through the crowd, towards a small, portly gentleman with crimped hair and wearing a patch over one eye for dramatic effect.

"Hello GP, this is also one of yours," she said, before rushing off in the direction of the ladies' powder room, a lace handkerchief clamped between her teeth.

Rob towered over this tiny figure of a man, but somehow felt inwardly overawed by being in the presence of such a great man.

"Hello," he said shyly. "I'm one of your authors."

GP, who didn't even look faintly amused, asked him his name. Rob told him. He asked again. Rob told him again. He shook his head, bewildered.

"Sorry, I don't remember names. What was the title of your most recent work?"

Rob looked at him, wondering if he was taking the mick. Then he realised his mind, too, had gone blank. He couldn't remember the title! 'Come on, come on,' he thought. 'Think man, think. You must remember, it's the only decent poem you've written all year.'

So there they stood: a publisher who didn't recognise his writers' names and a poet who couldn't remember the title of his best poem. It took Peter Gulliver to rescue them from this impasse, by suggesting that they all went indoors to watch 'Lit Idol' on BBC4.

Thus ended Rob's introduction to the literary lifestyle.

Copyright © Paul Grainger
11 Nov 03

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