On Spec

A Danish translator, why on earth would he, an ex-poet, want a Danish translator?, he asks. Why would he open his door to a Danish translator even if he's come all the way from Denmark, all the way to Manchester to meet with him?

Trust the Dane to come on spec, he says. Trust the Dane just to fly in, he says, all friendly willingness – well, all apparently friendly willingness – and expect to be seen as though all the world were Copenhagen and you can simply go round knocking on people's doors.

A Dane, he says. A Dane with a dictaphone, he says, waving it around. I should know, at the very least, that he's an ex-poet, which means he doesn't give interviews, and has no interest in giving translation advice. No interviews, no advice, he says, that's what he told me.

He never was particularly interested in interviews even when he was a poet, he says. In truth, he was always on the verge of becoming an ex-poet even when he was a poet, or what was regarded as a poet, he says. For him, the word poet is an honorific and not at all like the word Dane which is simply horrific, he says.

A Dane on his doorstep, he says. A Dane on his doorstep with his dictaphone, he says. A government-funded dictaphone, he says. A government-bought, government-supported dictaphone, and a government-funded, government-stipended Dane, he says. So this is how Danish tax-dollars are to be spent, which is to say wasted, the poet says, stepping aside to let me in.