I'm on the return portion of a 500 mile round trip train journey hurtling back to Kings Cross from West Yorkshire Playhouse in Leeds. I have written an adaptation of Benjamin Zephaniah's book Refugee Boy for West Yorkshire Playhouse. It's all about a fantastic kid called Alem who has one Eritrean and one Ethiopian parent. He ends up in England seeking refuge and finds…. you'll have to see the play won't you. The first draft is written. Today was a lively, no a sparky script meeting with the director and literary manager. Good stuff.

Bought a Moschino jacket in Leeds with the money I am saving from not smoking and hopped on the train home. I collect my bike at Kings Cross and notice a small boy crying with a bloodied nose facing a wall. The sign above his head says platform nine and three quarters. There should be a large cushion of congealed blood from the hundreds of kids who have done the same. To write a book where the words find there way to the physical world were they make a space that wasn't there before is everything that Global Poetry System documents. I cross Kings Cross and cycle the four miles home: It's been three weeks (plus a day) that I stopped smoking and it feels so good.