Tuesday, June 25, 2013
The Word From Headquarters: Suffolk Punch Is Moving House
The Bard Gaff, aka Suffolk Punch headquarters, is relocating to points presently unknown in the next two months. My landlord is selling, quite reasonably given that he can't buy a house down south where he now lives while he still owns this one. He’s a good guy, the first landlord I’ve been able to say that about without crossing my fingers behind my back. But life changes, people's needs change, and his need is to be in another part of the country with the person he loves. Good for him.
Of course, having to move means your nomad editor and his spiritual wife are now faced with a great deal of work on top of all our usual labours. I also have to suppress my natural preference for being left the fuck alone.Tomorrow someone is coming to paint the lounge and in readiness for that I’ve had to pile all my books up on my writing table. (Well, those I haven’t given to charity.) I sit here now at the laptop looking like a paranoid hippie inside a bunker made of the great works of the ages. Which is exactly what I am. I’ve just been sorting through and properly archiving (at last) all my literary papers and correspondence. Letters from Joe Speer, Dave Church, t.k.splake, Norb Blei, Chris Torrance, John Tungay, Barry Tebb, Bryn Fortey, Jeanne Conn, Bill Wyatt . . . these things have been lying around, stuffed in drawers and boxes, for years. Such disrespect! When the time comes I could write a history of the small press from all these documents.
Maybe I will. But I have more pressing matters on my agenda at the moment. Like printing off a cv in the Greek café on Abington Street this morning. I’ve registered with a private tutoring agency but I’m getting no work; so, much as I don’t want to, I’ll have to sign on at the Job Centre for a while. Convincing a new landlord to take us on won’t be easy with my partner on minimum wage (though what they pay care workers in this country is a scandal) and me being an overweight, half-blind epileptic living in the radiant, pure light of literature, wholly uncorrupted by anything so vulgar as money.