January and February 1971 were dynamic months.

The Danbury Street flat experiment continued. I liked the sense of community, and the lively  debates and meetings that occurred; and Snoo was a fabulous cook and bon vivant.

He’d make delicious home-made taramasalata and hummus ( not generally so well- known in the early Seventies); and brought  reclaimed stripped-pine pews ( from a church) into the kitchen. We listened to ‘The Doors’, ‘Dylan’, ‘Steely Dan’ (1972);  Miles, John Coltrane and non-stop Joni Mitchell. These people were the  soundtrack to our lives.

We also  drank copious amounts of red wine.

On January 31st, my father got married, for the third time, at Marylebone Register Office, where I, and  a certain Lady Wendy Turner, were both witnesses, and he, and his bride, Helen, then flew to Australia, to begin married life, on February 3rd. To me, it was a kind of death.

On February 9th, I spent a weekend with Alan Munton in Cambridge, and we went to Rudi  Dutschke’s farewell party at Clare Hall.  Dutschke had been the most prominent spokesperson of the German socialist student movement in 1968.  After the failed attempt on his life by Josef Bachmann, in ’68,  he was accepted by Clare Hall to finish his degree, and to recuperate here in the UK.  However, in 1971, he was expelled from the country, by Edward Heath and the Conservative government as ‘an undesirable alien’.

At the party, I met many friends of Alan’s, including Roger Hood, the criminologist, and Peter and Ursula Jonke.

The next day, February 10th, I was back in London, comforting Jonathan, because of an arts programme he’d been on, in which he felt he hadn’t ‘performed’ well ‘on. That same day, Hugo Williams, the assistant editor of  London Magazine, called round to the flat to bring back some poems of mine that I’d submitted, and that  he’d decided to reject. He was very friendly. It was to take me  thirty years from 1971 to 2001  to have six poems finally accepted by that fine and superlative editor, Alan Ross,  in the February and March 2001 editions of  London Magazine;  and days before his death on February 14th, 2001. Those poems were: ‘End of the Road’, ‘Exploring the Arctic’, ‘Motel’,’Flying to Alaska’,  and ‘Half-Term’.

January  and February 1971 were  busy months for all of us  at  Danbury Road. I was still working on the final volume (4) of a series of school books for CUP and  wrapping things up; I’d also received a rejection slip from Adrian Henri, the editor of  Poetry Review; a dear, warm lovable man, whom I’d met and liked. A  bon viveur, who was kind enough to tell me that he ‘liked my poems very much’.

Meanwhile, I was ‘out and about’ a great deal, and seeing George, Jonathan and Alan from time to time.

On January 8th, Jonathan stayed the night with me, raising my hopes once again that we could be a couple ; but I had to suffer instead  the noise made by him and Snoo, as they stayed up until 2pm shooting pellets from an airgun into a rubbish bin in the kitchen.

I’d even bump into friends and acquaintances on the tube: Francis Huxley ( at Baker Street), and Peter Geach ( my lecturer in Logic at B’ham) and his wife, G.E.M. Anscombe ( at Piccadilly Circus).

On January 14th, I went to a painting class,  at Hammersmith College of Art, given by Ruskin Spear. True to form, he told anecdotes about Frank Brangwyn, and art generally; and recommended the Morandi exhibition at the Royal Academy, which Spear considered to be ‘good, capable stuff’. It was an envigorating evening; and my drawings were reasonably  good.

Jonathan was busy ( among many other projects) preparing ‘An Evening of Poetry, at the Kings Head Theatre Club, with the poets Alan Brownjohn, George, and Anthony Thwaite, which he was to introduce. This took place on February 15th, 1971.

We all moved into our cramped little flat in Danbury Road at the end of November, 1970,and stayed there for six months until April, 1971. It was a  chic little place, with leather armchairs, fitted carpets, with stripped pine doors and central heating. The rent was high; and Snoo absolutely hated the place.

However, it was here that he and Ann fell in love, and became a couple. It was also a place for our mutual friends to congregate over the large, wooden kitchen table.  Snoo was away a lot with ‘Portable Theatre’, and Ann’s work took her to Manchester and other places.

We had a lot of  visitors. Vic Sage, Lorna’s husband, came to stay; Jonathan was a frequent visitor; George would drop by; and my dear friend from Birmingham days, Alan Munton, would call in.

On January 1st, 1971, I wrote:

‘Jonathan called round tonight. He looked well, but was obviously depressed. We went to a Greek restaurant in Soho, where we had excellent mousaka. We didn’t make love later, but were tender with one another. We had a good drink and some laughter’.

Later, I wrote: ‘Snoo has gone to Southampton to watch his play,’Charles the Martyr’, to see how it fares in the NUS play stakes’. Hope that it goes well for him.

Also, ‘Alan (Munton) phoned last night – while Jonathan was here – to say that he had been accepted at Cambridge for a Phd. thesis; and that Anthony Thwaite had accepted a review by him for the  New Statesman – next week. That’s very exciting. I told him he’d get it. Lovely news’.

Dear Alan – a loyal and great friend to me –  and a thread throughout  my life from Birmingham days in 1964  – through the ’70s – and until now.  I was to spend quite a lot of time with him this year – 1971 – and  onwards.

1970 was a pivotal year  for myself ( I had got my degree, and moved to London), and Jonathan’s literary career was taking off. His output was astonishing, beginning with the short story he had written over a non-stop three-day stint at my flat in Norwich ( with my handing meals to him; removing ashtrays and so on) to articles and book  reviews for the New Statesman; the publication of The Society of the Poem – still an excellent piece of academic writing – ; and a play produced by Kenith Trodd.

My own life was interesting. I was keeping a diary of all the people I was meeting, both with George (MacBeth) and later Jonathan. Parties at the ICA, attended by Stephen Spender and Melvyn Bragg, and hearing a talk given by Borges – to a rapt audience.

I gave a small reading ( in a church) with a group of poets, and read at a gathering where Michael and his wife, Frances Horowitz, were present. I liked them both very much, and thought that Frances was a fine poet. Dear Michael shouted out to the audience ‘That Amanda Humphrey- Reeve’ is a damn good poet’. I was both flattered and embarrassed.

Actually, I regarded my name with horror, and longed to be rid of it. It was ridiculous. ‘Heaving Rump’ I was once called – absolutely cringe- makingly hilarious. Almost as  embarrassing as the  anagram for T.S. Eliot (‘Toilets’).  I later wrote under the name ‘Reeve’, and even ‘Humphrey’, before publishing as ‘Sewell’, my beloved late husband’s surname.  Jonathan made an anagram of my name as ‘Peevy human drama here’, which was both  funny and apposite, as was the anagram of his name: ‘Hot banana jar’.

Frances  Horowitz died tragically young in 1983 at the age of 45; but I still remember her delicate features, beautiful brown eyes and hair; lovely voice, and intense interest and kindness that she showed to me, and everyone around her.

I was now working for Cambridge University Press, as a picture researcher, which suited my restless spirit, as I spent most of my day in museums, searching for good photographs and objets d’art; trawling through the Mary Evans photo library to present appropriate visual images  to the writer  of a series of school history books that I was working for.

I would spend hours in the British Museum Library, which I loved, often sitting near Germaine Greer, where she worked, day after day, writing and researching.

The smokey, anarchic cafe downstairs in the basement was a joy to visit for a  crafty  ciggie and a disgusting coffee ( everyone seemed to smoke then); and  where I chatted with other library habituees, such as the Polish-American poet, Lucien Stryk – a lively and intelligent conversationalist –  and his group of friends. and also the writer, Vincent Brome ( a prodigious writer; generous-spirited and lively man, best known, perhaps for his insightful biography of Jung : ‘Jung: the Man and the Myth’.

I was also writing reviews for Twentieth Century magazine, and having the occasional poem published. I even wrote a small review about an exhibition of Terry Frost’s paintings ( in Oxford) for  Arts Review, but realised the minimum payment of a  few guineas wasn’t worth the trouble and effort involved.

Life was fun and enjoyable. I was renting a sunny room at 53, Hilldrop Crescent, the home of the painter Elizabeth Rees-Mogg, and sister of William. Elizabeth was a kindly landlady, who treated her ‘tenants’ with great respect, and shared her living quarters generously with us. I liked talking to her over mugs of tea in her kitchen or living-room.

We would laugh at the fact that the notorious murderer,Dr Crippen, had once lived down the road at No. 39 ( now a block of flats).

With grateful thanks to my tutor, John Gage, artbooks by Thames and Hudson, the public library in Norwich, Colin Raban, and a viva  with Sir Alan Bowness, I managed to gain a  2:1 degree in Fine Arts, and graduated from UEA in 1970.

However, all my thoughts and interests were with poetry, and I was captivated by the ‘poetry scene’ in London, largely influenced by the BBC’s ‘Mr Poetry’ – George MacBeth. We went to poetry readings and publishers’ launches together.  He took me to meet sensational and adorable  Stevie Smith at her home at 1, Avondale Road, Palmer’s Green. ( see  Tea with Stevie ). I also met the poet, Fleur Adcock, whose work I also admired greatly.

I remember in 1969 that he even took me out to lunch on Wednesday, 28th August, and then again on Friday, 30th August – the day before my ill-fated marriage to Andy should’ve taken place. George was always there to comfort me . He had true empathy.

This came in part from/ because of his own doleful love-life. He was then still married to an eminent physician, but protected her from his other numerous extra-marital liaisions, especially his painful relationship with the South African poet, Jeni Couzyn.

Years later, he married twice again. Once to the writer, Lisa St Aubin de Teran, with whom he had a son, Alexander. I remained friends throughout these times with George until his agonisingly painful death from motor neurone disease in 1992, aged only sixty. It is hard to endure  that this energetic, enthusiastic and vibrant man,, who encouraged so many young poets,  could suffer so terribly at the end of his life.

I still have numerous letters, billets-doux, books and postcards from dear George, spanning many years. And  I am glad that a handsome edition of his ‘Selected Poems’ has just been brought out by Enitharmon, sensitively edited by Anthony Thwaite, his great friend, and with a warm tribute to him by Carol Ann Duffy in her preface, because he was a greatly original and true poet in every way.

Life with Jonathan, while he was still at UEA, had been turbulent. I was relieved when he finally moved to London, and  I could now work hard for my Finals and concentrate on my own needs, friends – and creativity. I had been sharing  with dear friends ( Vivien and Anthony Lovell)  in  student ‘digs’ in College Road, Norwich, but decided to move back  to a room at 33, Unthank Road  to concentrate  on my studies.

Colin , Jonathan’s brother, had moved in to JR’s attic flat here. Colin was studying for an an M.A. at UEA, and we were already good friends.  He was to guide me, with great kindness, through my Finals, providing a timetable for me ( for revising), and humour and support at all times. We would meet every night for a beer at our local pub, at the end of the day, to discuss my progress. I liked and appreciated the routine he provided. He had become a true and loyal friend.

My relationship with his brother had deteriorated to such a point that Jonathan once threw a copy of  Angus Wilson’s  The Wrong Set at me. Things were becoming  farcical between us. We were very ill-matched. Once, Jonathan accused me of being too ‘below stairs’ for him, and said that he doubted that my family had ever had ‘servants’ I laughed at all this absurdity, and years later, when reading my family tree, I noted, a bit guiltily, that in the 1881 Census it stated that   my great- grandparents had employed two ‘live-in’ domestics: ‘Bessie’, a ‘general domestic servant’, and ‘Ellen’, a nursemaid, at their home at 6, Oxford Road, Hornsey, in North London. I know that Jonathan was being playful and was joking around when he spoke in this way.  And I  realise now that he was just trying to detach himself from me, and to point out, quite rightly,  the huge social and intellectual gulf between  us.

By now, and much to the huge dismay of several members of the English Faculty, the glorious academic and writer , Lorna Sage, and Jonathan were enamoured of each other. Formerly deadly enemies, they were now an ‘item’; and I  could never hope to compete with Lorna’s beauty and brilliance. All I could do was to wish them both well.

But Jonathan and I remained friends. And we continued to meet in London  and to be fond of one another until our son, Alexander James, was born in 1973.

I also met his family: beautiful mother, Monica, a kind and  compassionate left-winger; his taciturn father, Peter, a rural Dean of the Church of England, and three brothers – Colin, William and Dominic.