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Those wicked blank pages [UK]:
Hugo Williams: 'An advance copy of my latest book of poems, Dear Room, has just arrived from the publishers, folded in half by the postman to get it through the letterbox. I tear open the packet to see what colour it is. The publishers weren't able to tell me exactly: something approaching terracotta if I was lucky, tomato if not. In the bright daylight of the front door it is closer to tomato. Looking through it I see that one poem is printed smaller than the others. That's it. I hurl it into a corner of the room and force myself not to pick it up again for an hour, as a punishment for its imperfection, although we both know that I'll be reading it non-stop for the next few days to try and find out what it's like.'
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