ONE of the testimonies to how much I love the life I lead as a performance poet and musician is that, barring truly exceptional circumstances, I don’t cancel gigs.

I’ve tottered on stage with a monster temperature, staggered on with a broken leg, wheeled myself on with two knackered hamstrings and performed standing on a wall in a field in Wales after the fascists who attacked the gig had been kicked out by a combination of the audience and the local rugby club and the event closed down by the police. All in a night’s work.

I did cancel a few during my mother’s long and heartbreaking battle with Alzheimer’s but not many — the unbelievable support of my wife enabled us to care for her and me to fulfil most of my bookings as well. It’s a wonderful privilege to earn my living doing what I love and my commitment is total.