The Irish woman, beforehand, who couldn't direct me to the library but who talked about coming from the West Coast of Ireland via London in an old Volvo, with partner and children; about waiting for the laundry to spin with the family in the bar next door; about the AA membership having kicked in, so the car's next problem would be covered ...
... then the young-ish bearded man who did know where the library was, who led me down the narrow pavement solicitous that I might be run down if I walked beside him, whose dreadlocks weren't obvious until you worked out why he seemed to have a tail hanging down under the back flap of his shirt. Who held my arm, who made sure I could see the library sign; his goodbye.
The narrow streets up the hill from the car park, tiny tucked-in terraced houses, narrow gaps to houses behind houses, a town without straight lines, built on an absence of flat ground, running down to the - yes, the sea, but first, Commercial Street (was that the name?), widened to let the traffic through to Falmouth. Penryn, cut off from the sea.
The librarian, the initial lack of a corkscrew, Patricia's poems (The Poetry Diet, to be published by www.thingleypress.com, or rather, Thingley Press), other contributors, the lady with the spontaneous haikus, everything rushing along, handing out cake, wine; that old and very true thing about making eye contact, connecting, sharing; conversations afterwards with most of the audience (20?) staying to share.
Home to find a disassembled motorcycle and a hunt for a missing screw. A replacement found. The last twenty minutes of 'The Sixth Sense': the father watches the video; the boy tells his mum; Bruce finds it cold at home. Ends.