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A few things about myself - born and brought up in Lancashire - worked as a science teacher for several years before giving it up in favour of a breakdown. Since done lots of temping, a bit of literature development work and having moved to London twelvemonth ago now work for the Arts Council (for the education dept not the literature department - which thankfully means I'm not involved in handing out money to poets!) Writing wise - I did an MA in Creative Writing at Lancaster and currently teach (on-line) for their distance learning department. Been published in one or two small press magazines and done some readings here and there. Poems have won prizes in Lancaster Litfest and Yorkshire open comp and one was runner up in this years Arvon DT Comp. (Peter came second. ). Apart from writing I play the piano (enthusiastically but badly which is quite liberating), follow "the" cricket (I'm in decline until the next England test at the end of Feb) and have a guinea pig which I dote on to a rather worrying extent. Also a husband (who is occasionally doted on and sometimes sworn at). I'm sure I've gone on too much, so here's a poem. I'm messing about with non standard English and ways of working with and transribing Northern speech in a contemporary way. Canteen That were summer it started. Feranti's canteen. I seen food for what it were. Frozen fat on carcasses, giant tins o peaches all slimy an crumbling. Right the way to shinin pink bacteria like froth on inside of that tank of a dishwasher. After a few week I knew that even Rum Baba's - all gold an sticky an temptin at first were nowt but slops from moment they first hit yer tongue. Ant littul pool of syrup round base, like sweat round yer bum on bus ride home. First job each day was sarnies. Six ov us in a line. Margein, Fillin. Liddin Cuttin. Boxin. Sealin. Like the limbs an lungs an guts of a monster. Six pair o legs stuck out, like one o them Chinatown dragons. An all the huffs an puffs an knocks an gurgles an the beat of its heart yer could never stifle not even wi shaggin. I were quick. Not just with sealin my bit o sandwich run that shined the print off mi finger on otplate but clearin too. Fastest trolley this side o Stockport. Twenny bi two trays stacked wi plates, and bigguns on top o littluns an me just a blur in blue nylon slip and mi pumps, disappearin into mi own sweat. An rest o factory tuned into another channel. Me hummin movin, bein in wavelength that were never switched on. An good at wipin. Not in circles like you'd think. But end ter end then end ter end the other way, obliteratin where you'd been. And Brenda big woman on Hospitality wi me took a likin ter me. Slipped milk left over on a Friday into mi bag. "Yer'll fade ter nowt" she'd say wheelin that china clunkin trolley into boardroom, quiet as a mouse an less seen. Hips swingin like a muffled bell. Like she dint know.