I am ashamed to share this with you, but I must tell you glove #10 will not be published, due to the incompetence of both printer and courier.

Despite telling me he’d have the magazines with me for 4^th August, Tony Gilbert (for that is the printer’s name) let me down badly. He gave the package of 200 copies to the courier, but had put the wrong address on. The courier twice attempted to deliver the package to this wrong address and was refused on both occasions. Hence, he was to return it to the depot, so the address could be corrected and the package sent out again to me on 11 August. This did not happen and no explanation was forthcoming. Instead, I return from holiday today 18 August and email the printer in advance asking where the booklets are. He informs me that the courier has “lost” the package and that he has no interest in reprinting them, although he has sportingly agreed not to charge me…. Hence I’m unable to physically publish you, unless someone (Tar Quin?) can point me in the direction of a reliable local printer.

Sadly, therefore, in the absence of other options, I am considering making the PDF free to download from my https://gilipollez.wordpress.com/ website.  I am so, so sorry this has happened, but can’t think of a way around this.

Much love & fulsome apologies; those who have sent me money via PayPal will receive a refund in the immediate future. Here is a poem of mine that ought to have been in glove #10

This morning I went for my usual half ten coffee.

They didn’t have any soya milk.

I burst out crying, walked off site,

deliberately wandered into the main road.

Turned my back on the traffic, stood with my arms outstretched.

This postman who was driving the van that screeched to a halt

a couple of yards behind,

guided me back to the pavement.

Supportive, not judgemental; I think he was scared.

I didn’t say thanks. I should have done.

Instead, I walked off to the station.

Stood on the bridge, preparing to jump.

A couple of minutes later, I wised up.

It registered where I was and what could have happened.

Felt more shivery than foolish; went back to work.

Disproportionate responses to minor disappointments like this

demonstrate the increasing frequency of dissociative episodes

that show I need sectioned.

I am in danger of becoming a statistic, a report on the BBC website.

I have never been more frightened in my life.

And, all the while, you sat in the seat

where we used to sit,

laughed in the way

we used to laugh,

and shared those smiles

you once gave me.