by Vivienne Pratfall’s diary on low expectations, genuine surprises, and the specific charm of amateur open mic nights
The poetry was, genuinely, mostly quite bad. One poem about a broken kettle ran to eleven stanzas. And yet the room was warm, the wine was cheap, and everyone clapped for everyone regardless of quality, which is its own kind of lovely thing London still manages to produce on a random Tuesday. I’ll go back. Further London diary entries continue at bohiney.com, with the original piece live at prat.uk.
SOURCE: https://prat.UK/
