On a winter's night a writer

I HATE Italo Calvino.

Anyway, it's cold... it's colder than a politician's heart, it's so cold that the local flasher was caught describing himself to women, it was so cold the lawyers had their hands in their own pockets... etc, etc...

We were not expecting many people but five hardy souls turned up, including a new poet. The poet had spoken about how he had tried various other writers' groups, so when he read out, instead of being really nice and positive as even the most acid-tongued of are when a new person reads out for the first time, we had to make sure that our feedback was more insightful that whatever he had from other groups - so we gave it to him. We hope he comes back!

So there was poetry from the new member and only one other piece of prose, but we read, listened and vivisected til 9.20pm.

After the pub, this happened:

No one knows why.

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