It's been a week of sinful stollen moments, and I wish that was a typo... Two writers' meetings, both of which turned into a feast of seasonal treats as well as stories and stanzas. It's not actually murky enough, weather-wise, to justify xmas xcess. On Saturday there's a stunning blue sky and Peter & I enjoy a walkabout day with our journals; Peter writes about "pausing the fast forward day" as we linger in Cafe Nero watching the Bristol bustle. In the evening there's a gig at The Folk House, co-hosted by Rosemary Dun - that's her being a fairy - where we enjoy the diverse talents of Mo the foxy Peoples' Nun, Lucy English, and a mad trio called More Silage as well as the incomparable lugubrious genius of Nathan Filer. Nathan's themes are generally on the dark side - no-one who's heard it will forget his Oedipal memoir - and tonight the focus is on unrequited love by various women and a yucca plant, though the deeper the descent to personal purgatory the funnier the poem. It's cruel but tempting to hope the poet's heart remains unhealed for a while longer, or at least that he remembers how to bear a grudge.