And Peter tacitly defers to each passing technician, felt to be less a bow to superior officer than the man's natural bent to soften rough edges and make no waves he'd keep any strained relations between the two adjunct camps under wraps, though any visitor may instantly pick up the hostile vibes. A fluent and sparky talker, effusive Peter keeps the sheer bulk of data from growing tedious, my ears enchanted as much by ardent delivery as by the multi-lingual programming stats. Thanks to the BBC's recent gift, a hefty stipend, he'd gotten Montserrat's radio complex back on its feet, from near-bankruptcy to happy solvency. The range of programs in English has never been so elaborate as today's menu, and his crew are kept busy switching channels all day long. It's O.K., I say.
Poetry always has to take a backseat to more popular arts at home, too.
Lucky to have a patch of floor for standing room only. So forget about any poet's chair 2. We continue our relaxed talk, while faint yelps issue from a rear room. The voice may be outside, it sounds so distant we hardly take notice. The far-off squeals grow near, rising in pitch to grunts.