On my way to the bank this lunchtime, I discover Manchester Book Market in St Anne’s Square, and in one corner there’s a transvestite poet called Chloe Poems doing some readings and introducing a bunch of other independent authors and poets reading their poetry and prose; the mix was eclectic, from suburban fantasies about milkmen to tales of Christmas long past spent on the Scottish Islands and an Iraqi film director’s life in Paris.
In the end, I forgot to go to the bank.