Something didn’t seem right when I arrived early at The Leather Exchange [students can finish this implied novel if they wish]. The writing was on the wall. Literally. A blackboard in the bar advertised fine dining upstairs from Wednesdays. It was Wednesday and a poetry reading was scheduled for that same space. Luckily for us there were no diners though the pub’s moves to change its clientele seemed pretty much like the thin end of the wedge [or the rough end of the stick, or whatever]. I fear we may be hunting for another venue before very long. Amy D’Ath and Elizabeth Guthrie read separately and performed together in the first half of the reading. They left the listener wanting more but I had to head back to the adjacent county. As I was passing through the barriers at London Bridge tube I noticed some transit police rushing ahead. They’d cornered a man of dark complexion under the suspicion that he was carrying a knife in his belt. The ‘knife’ turned out to be a large buckle. At least the police apologised profusely.