I had been flirting with the leading lady for some time. When she put on the Anglo-Saxon tunic, I went one step further. I took her in my arms, kissed her, then slid my hands down over the coarse material to her bottom.

‘Mmm, I bet it’s much softer underneath,’ I said, squeezing.

This was not in the script, but she returned my kiss as if still playing her part, while the camera crew filmed on with sly approval.

Earlier that day I had travelled with the poet P. by train. Across the aisle was a man who looked like Yeats, and who was reading a biography of Yeats with a picture of Yeats on the cover.

‘He must be Yeats’s great niece,’ I whispered to the poet P. I had meant to say ‘nephew’. P. looked at me as if I were an idiot. Too late now to impress him with the sheaf of poems I had brought with me.

But here he was arriving on the film set, staring at my hands, no doubt wondering where they were going next.



© Ian Seed 2019
Pic: Claire Palmer

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