When reading my poetry at a gathering recently I was asked by a rather butch woman whether I was a lesbian

I explained to her that I was to all intents a man and in possession of a rather happy penis

She said that her question had arisen whilst reading my poetry and that she had particularly liked my poem about Anne Lister

I assured her that I had never written a poem about Anne Lister although I much admired her

The woman showed me a copy of the poem which had been written by anonymously by a famous Hollywood actress

She said that the perspective that the poem exhibited showed a deep understanding of the Sapphic mind and she would like to get to know me better

I was struggling as although in an awkward position I am never rude

That is not the way I function

In a way I liken myself to Edward Fitzgerald

I looked for my publisher but he was nowhere to be seen

Indeed the room was rather empty

It was then that a waif of a girl (who I later found out was the girlfriend of the woman) rushed towards us

She was wearing a stained white vest and scruffy jeans and reminded me of a young Jane Birkin

I thought that a jealous scene might occur but I was very wrong as the girl implored us both to look at the television screen in the main hall

Notre Dame was on fire

I did not follow the odd couple but instead looked at the coverage on my phone

It was as I watched the tragic events unfold that I decided to write a poem about Anne Lister which I would include in my next collection