Life as an intellectual is not easy

Having seen "Blade Runner 2049" and "Loving Vincent" in the same week as attending my Poetry Group, the Poetry Writing Course at the City Lit,  the Poets' Corner Book Club and having picked up my pre-ordered copy of Philip Pullman's first volume of the "Book of Dust" trilogy I am exhausted.

One minute, I'm writing free form poems, analysing others creative efforts, then I'm off immersed in a film about Van Gogh's death and a film made of acrylic paint. No sooner has that finished but Waterson's are telling me Mr Pullman is awaiting my attentions. Then there was the visit to the local Empire to take in, analysis and digest  Denis Villeneuve's reworking of the Blade Runner story. Then...it's the Book Club where we gave Jane Harper's "The Dry" a good going over.

Frankly by the weekend it was all I could do to home bake 12 organic wholemeal rolls and a pizza before hurrying down to the allotment to give the grass paths their last mow, pick the remaining apples (quite delicious - sweet and crisp), harvest the butternut squash, dig up a horseradish root (nothing compares to freshly grated root mixed with English mustard, wine vinegar and double cream, with a dash of salt and pepper), and cut some Swiss chard for my neighbours. The spinach will have to wait - I've just finished sowing my early broad beans and Japanese onions and have pruned the blackcurrants while contemplating the significance of Stephen Hawking's  1965 PhD thesis on expanding universes. 

It's a lot to take in but it is expected of us intellectuals - especially as Waltham Forest is vying to be London's first Borough of Culture. No honest. Waltham Forest is  a hive of creative activity not to mention local honey - I bought four jars from the guy that has bees on our allotment. There's drama, all sorts of art - high, low and indifferent, music - folk, rock, chamber and orchestral as well as choirs coming out of your ears. I have to do my bit to develop this cultural miliau.

Unfortunately my creative thrust has come up short. The groundbreaking crime thriller set variously in the present, 80's and 50's - has been killed off. Also my groundbreaking sci -fi novel "Departure" - following on where Denis Villeneuve's "Arrival" left off remains earth bound. An exciting and unusual plot line failing to ignite. Currently my hero is stuck just off Enceladus meeting up with a member of super species from the centre of our galaxy. In addition my purple patch of poetry creation is now decidedly off colour and I'm forced to construct rhyming couples of a dubious nature. I take comfort in the knowledge that Ibsen and Chekhov suffered from similar deserts of inspiration - although they clearly wound up at the oasis - I'm not sure I won't have my bones picked by the vultures long before I reach any palm fringed pool of sweet, cool water.

Yet in the despond of despair and after a couple of glasses of California's best Cab Sav we intellectuals must struggle on: it is our duty; we owe it to you all. After all without us, and I include Prof Hawkins and Mr Pullman among others, our Post Brexit UK would be calamitous. Wouldn't it?