I joined her at the breakfast table and as I was spreading marmalade on my toast, she was eating Ready Brek with cinnamon and nutmeg in it. Davinia was always particular like that. ‘Davinia, what goes on in a poetry jam?’ ‘You don’t know?’ ‘If I did know I wouldn’t be asking, would I!’ ‘No need to bark,’ she said. ‘Why do you want to know?’ ‘Why? That’s my business. Are you gonna tell me or what?’ She grinned that know-it-all grin of hers. Then she fed herself two spoonfuls of her morning starter, enjoying the moment of me having to come to her for help. ‘Well!’ I said, beginning to get frustrated. ‘Usually you get a few headline performers who are well known on the poetry jam circuit,’ she finally explained. ‘They usually rant about the government, poverty, racism, you know, that sort of thing. In the audience people cheer and clap, everyone is respectful to each other and in the breaks you sip herbal teas and mineral water and make friends; it’s not cool to drink alcohol.
