The life of the jobbing poet is not without incident. People tend to assume that just because you are willing to oblige patrons there is no real limit to what a poet is willing to do.

Obviously we all have our standards, but in all candour these can be infinitely mutable. The timing of your previous meal (yesterday or perhaps the day before?) can introduce flexibility into one’s thinking which might not be present if you were dozing well-fed in front of a good fire with silver in your pockets.

Also there are times when one unthinkingly takes on work which at other times you might quietly foist off onto somebody else.

I well remember one such time when matters were looking distinctly grim. Not only was my poetic muse paying poorly, even by her own low standards, but Shena was also finding things difficult. Her income as a mud-jobber…