By  1am this morning  I was on BBC radio Five’s   Up All Night  alongside Hay Festival director Peter Florence
and comedian Andre Vincent
and critic Anita Seth.
The programme presented by the  irrepressible,  vastly experienced and hilarious Dotun Adebayo
 continued through the early hours.   At about 3am Peter requested I take part in a
panel at 11am this morning  with Sarfraz Mansoor  and Rosie boycott as Howard
Jacobson could not be there.  I said yes;
must have been the early morning delirium.  

At  three thirty am there was a slight break
for News or something and I slipped out of the studio  The entire Hay Festival Site was silent. Not
a soul, not a bird nor fox.  Then a
graceful visitation. As I stood  a   flock
of mist descended  like the breath of
creativity itself. The books were exhaling.  How many people get to see this place in this way.   Security
guards patrol the site outside but this moment of silence, stillness as the
mist poured in was mine  and the privelige of living in the moment. 

I left at 5pm and slept  at my hotel  for three hours in the softest bed in the
world.   It was like sleeping on  marshmellows. I returned  to the festival for 11am. A different
place. The sun belted down. Couples lay  back to catch  rays while children hop skipped and jumped over them. Icecreams wobbled in procession like the beehives of a thousand screaming beatles fans. Children
racing from a Jaqueline Wilson event to the bookshop. 
And the  green room was its usual assortment of goodies. 

In a scurry we, the participants,  are shuffled off to the Barclays theatre  and a
packed out sold out audience – none expecting me har har. The event continues introduced and chaired by Peter Florence himself and a good time was had by all.  I got to enjoy both Sarfraz and Rosie and to hear their unique experiences in the industry.  It all alsts till 1pm.    

I do an interview with Lisa Dwan and meet
again Paul Blezzard,  the  now literary  editor of The Lady.   It was
important that I got a goody bag for my ills. And after much undignified harrying I did.  But an extra bonus was  a crate of 
Cava.    This gorgeous place. This celebration of creativity.   I have to tear myself away.  At  4pm I’m  into the car  to travel to Bath for an evening performacne which is three hours away.

I arrive at The  Komedia  meet Simon Munnery    and Norman Lovett who talks
about the  book he is writing.  And in walked  the exceptional presence of  barb Jungr with a book under her
arm.  “It’s julian’s darling.”. The
Julian is Julian Clarey her good friend. I take a guess at instinct in thinking him extremely
clever. “he’ss seriously clever darling.” she says  
I like Barb already.  She is the
perfect Mistress of Cermonies for the evening performing her own songs too.  A class act. 

I read my poems on
stage in the allotted slot and  because
the  hotel was so bad in bath  (entirely my fault)
 I decided to go home after the gig and drove for  three hours through the night  back to London. I had to stop in a motorway service station to sleep an hour and then drink cover. I'd propped open my eyes with a couple of matchsticks and propped up my chin with a pile of books on my lap. I was determined to get home whatever the cost and arrived by midnight fast asleep with my hands on the wheel. Okay that bit isn't true.

That was a twenty two hour
working day.   A radio broadcast, a television interview, a
panel discussion at Hay, a Hay goody bag and a crate of Cava,  a performance on stage at the Komedia and four
hours driving. I loved every minute of it.   Done.