I'd send you a postcard, but I'd probably beat it back home

Lawks-a-mussy, an early post! My reasons are in no way altruistic- I’m posting now because I’m gallivanting off to Thailand, starting from Norwich bus station at 3 am. My apologies if there is no post next weekend, I shall try and waste your time again sometime in the week after.

I decided I’d use the trip to start off this post, and I was going to write something (a very ill informed something) about culture shock, specifically the money gap. I sincerely hope there IS a money gap, as I spent all my cash on the tickets to get there, and so spending funds are a little thin on the ground. If I knew how to install a PayPal donate button, I’d slap the damn thing over my face on the profile photo- I have no shame. I am banking (Hah! Punnery!) on the pound being worth far more in the east, hoping that the tattered and disgraced Sterling will magically overcome her recent slump and fill my wallet with crispy, square diamonds. This also involves the disgraceful hope that the Thai currency has lost its value in a similar manner, and that the financial system of a country that cannot take the economic hit the way dear old Blighty can has gone down the tubes so I can have a nice holiday.

All this is disappointingly selfish, but I hadn’t really realised it until I ran into Darren the street poet outside Primark.

I’ve run into Darren once before. Both times he has approached me or someone I’ve been with, and offered to recite a poem of his own composing. Darren differs from other street poets I’ve encountered in that he generally singles out people he believes might be receptive and speaks to them personally, rather than finding a trapped audience and hoping one of them cares. I’ve been in the queue outside clubs, listening to the awkward shufflings of people who have no interest in poetry whatsoever, and are essentially paying the poet to leave so they can get back to the banter.

Darren is pretty talented. He gave me a choice of three poems, and I picked one about dreams. He recited it without any major stumbles, working my name into the narrative. It was about dreams of the future, and wondering if they could be realised without the cost of something precious. I thought it was nice, unless you think poetry is gay, in which case it was TOTALLY gay. When he learned I was off to Thailand he and his wife also gave me some sage advice, which I am not going to repeat here on the basis I may incriminate myself.

I gave him a quid. I considered the poem to be worth a little more than that (only a little more, he wasn’t, like, Rilke or anything). I also realise that many people wouldn’t want to pay anything for it, which is cool. I guess Darren knows as much. There isn’t much money in poetry, least of all street poetry (unless you call in hip-hop. Social commentary POW!).

At least Darren has found a way of making money without messing people around. No one has to pay for what he provides, and he works for it. It’s not something you can take away, admittedly, but I’ve often paid more money for an experience that was more transient and of less worth.

I firmly expect to be taken for a ride on some things in Thailand. I know if it was me, I’d want to take some of those tourist bastards for everything they had. It makes the fact I plan on doing the same to them a little easier to swallow. But Darren reminds me that you can make some chedda without screwing somebody over. I’ll get right on it when I get back.

******

Huh, that one wasn’t very funny, was it? Sorry, it’s rushed and I’m a tad stressed. I’ll come up with some jokes over the break.

Also, can anyone tell me what the fuck ‘lawks-a-mussy’ means?