Ted Hughes would look great on my broomstick. She’s sleek and black and very beautiful. Quite restful to be with, too. Though if I’d known about her before I came to Ted Hughes’ house here near Hebden Bridge, I’d have taken my cat hair pills.
Apart from Steve, the centre director, we are all female on this course. And so there are fewer goings-on than anticipated. Though there’s a lot of talk about sex, and writing, and toilet paper.
The other Ted Hughes used to live here, the male one, the Poet Laureate. Sylvia Plath is buried nearby, and there’s been a steady stream of visitors to her grave from the house this week.
Thinking of handsome writers; I get annoyed when I see yet another author photograph and it’s somebody good looking. It’s as if you can’t be a writer and not be attractive. I don’t know. The ladies here this week clock in somewhere well above average for beauty. So either it really is the beautiful people who write, or writing makes you beautiful.
I’ll write a bit more, and check the mirror later.