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Poet and StandÌýUp ComedianÌý reflects on the programme with lyrical intent.ÌýKate has been regular on Radio 4 since 2007, making appearances on the Today Programme, Woman’s Hour, Arthur Smith’s Balham Bash, the Wondermentalist Cabaret and many more.

Poem 1: @ Norbert SnookÌý

Our dog knows that air is memorable and his nose tells truths;

which way the sparrows, shoes and shopping bags went,

that a subtle new bouquet has arrived in the field

where he snuffles grass scents as if they are a fine salad

laid out every morning just for him.

He knows that days are plenty wide enough to greet every being who passes

and fixing his deep brown eyes on sausages

can bring them miraculously closer.

He knows the dimensions of the last space on the settee,

how to paddle his paws to slot in

and punctuate his flow with easy sleep.

He knows the metallic pop of his treat tin lid and

the rustle of my coat as I slide it off the hook are actually a summons.

He knows I’m on my way back before I do,

his bottom waggling like a bee high on pollen

whether it’s been five minutes or five days

since I moved out of his view,

Our dog doesn’t know that his days as a quick black cloud will ever end,

that repetition is not always the same as prediction,

that his wet pawprints blur metaphors I have written him into.Ìý

He doesn’t know that I’m not in the house as he thumps his feather duster tailÌý

when I'm on speakerphone.

That curled nose to tip into an @

he has become my sign for home.

Ìý

Poem 2: The Flood

Ìý

The country is currently being severely battered

by metaphors about weather.

We cannot predict when this relentless torrent will stop,

if ever.

The media is being soaked with a tsunami of sentences

about immigrants and floods.

The tempest-tossed consequences of a lack of defences,

swollen ground, stolen goods.

overwhelming gales of whipped up words

may eventually harry us

into raising up our barriers.

Every bulletin sees new super storm- superlatives emerge.

If only the workers who protect us hadn't been swept away

in an austerity surge.

The ground is saturated,

you need to be brave,

there's a high alert,

yet another wave.

(One possible way to halt the flow reigning

from a newscaster's mouth

is to get them to talk about the weather

somewhere other than the South.)

Ìý

Ìý

Poem 3: Thank You Jar

Ìý

In between a Facebook photograph of a cat riding a bike

and a baby hedgehog piloting a hot air balloon

I see a viral encouraging people to

write down something they’re grateful for

and put the pieces of paper into a jar daily,

to be unfolded and rejoiced in at at the end of the year

by the time the optimism has run out

like last Christmas’ Baileys.

Because gratitude is an attitude.

I pick up a pen wondering where to start.

Suddenly my heart

is seized with happiness

I was born in a literate society.

I could give thanks for my pen!

Thank you Mr Biro!

For words, syntax, alphabetics,

for being able to write poems,

avoid athletics.

Then I glimpse my thumb.

Opposable, curved yet chunky-

one of the things stopping me from being a monkey.

Oh but- there’s also my fingernail.

A marvellous miracle of keratin,

protein and dead cells packed tightly in.

And air-