On the opening night of Barry Lewis’ Monsters exhibition 13 out of 40 pieces sold, which is pretty impressive. Sadly all the ones my hubla fell in love with went within moments, but I managed to get a red dot onto a rather lovely one of a pegasus, very similar to the horse of spoons, but with an elegant pair of fish-knife wings. I can’t wait till the end of Feb when I can take it home.

The exhibition gained loads of media attention, partly, I’d like to think, due to my press releases. I picked up a copy the Evening Post and found that one of the journalists had used paragraphs from my release word for word. Nice to know I’m making life so easy for them, but odd to see my words credited to someone else…

A selection of my words are also currently taking part in an art and poetry exhibition called Exploding Poetry. It’s being held at Bank Street Arts Centre, and is on the topic of women and warfare. I wrote short piece called Not War, Nor Peace, inspired by my time in Israel, and it got accepted! Love it when that happens – it almost makes all the rejections worthwhile.

© Gavin Spencer

Between swine flu and the recession, it’s nice to have something positive in the news, and Antony Gormley’s plinth is doing a grand job.

When I first heard about the idea I was a bit bemused. Antony Gormley is one of the UK’s most exciting sculptors, best known for his immense Angel of the North, so when I heard he’d been commissioned to fill Trafalgar Square’s strangely empty fourth plinth, I was filled with anticipation.

Then he revealed that what he would be doing was allowing 2,400 people an hour each to do whatever they chose on the plinth in the guise of being part of a living sculpture.

To be honest, at first it seemed like a bit of a cop-out, but now it’s actually happening I’ve been completely converted to the idea.

It’s a chance for any one of us to get up there, with a lottery system choosing registered hopefuls at random. Once in place you can do whatever you choose, and the performances, viewed by those in the square and those watching it on the internet and TV at home, have been incredibly varied.

One person held up a sign asking “But is it art”, a deluge of poets have been reading out their work. A writer I know will be up there on Monday reading out important words chosen by anyone who responded to his calls for submission.

It’s a fascinating blend of the intriguing, the pretentious and the banal, but it’s all rather magical. Celebs are no more likely to be chosen than unknowns, lecturers no more than labourers. It’s a completely level playing field, where everyone has a chance to stand in front of the world’s media, look down on the lions and say their piece.

But it also feels like a huge responsibility. What would you do with an hour’s worth of that kind of attention? What plight would you draw attention to? What brave idea would you voice? What beautiful lines of poetry or prose would you bring forth? An hour is a long time in the spotlight if you’re not used to it, and that hour will live on forever online, so you’d want to get it right.

No pressure then.

© J Darley

I spent yesterday in Salisbury in southern England, soaking up sunshine and scenes of inspired eccentricity. The cathedral city’s international arts festival is currently midway through, though they clearly aren’t shouting about it. There was no celebratory bunting, flags or declarations to let us know it was happening, but that understated approach is part of the charm.

As my friend and I meandered through the gorgeous old streets, we were drawn by applause and laughter to a piece of street theatre called The Dinner Table, which began with a rather salacious lesson on etiquette and ended with a girl slathering herself with mayonnaise in order to attract a mate…

Bizarre moments like this demonstrate the wealth of talent drawn to lit fests and the like. While top-notch authors and musicians take residence in theatres and arts centres, purveyors of street theatre and surreal performance art settle into more public areas such as parks, market squares and cathedral cloister gardens.

I kid you not. That’s where we found another glorious piece of three-dimensional art, called IOU. We were drawn into this sun-strewn, tree-shaded space simply to gaze at the medieval archways and columns surrounding it, but as soon as we stepped inside we heard piped whispering emanating from every corner -poems filling the air while shards of slate scrawled with similar fragments lay in the grass among the tombstones.

The whole thing was immensely peaceful - it was the kind of environment that made you want to lie down, close your eyes and let all your anxieties filter away into the air.

Who needs expensive masseurs when you can lie in a garden and have someone whisper poetry into your ear?

If I ruled the world, every village, town and city would have a street like this, a district or a single building - open to the public and filled with a sense of magic and unpredictability.