To prove that deaths are of a jamais deux sans trois persuasion, I’ve just heard of another loss to the Canterbury poetry community – the seemingly indomitable Isabelle Hudson died on Saturday (May 30), at the ripe old age of 94.
I didn’t know Isabelle well, but I always enjoyed talking with her. She loved poetry, and was a regular figure at the CPC readings despite battling poor heath. (Somewhat ironically, John O’Connor often brought Isabelle to and from poetry events.) She also had a penchant for a good dirty joke, and took great delight in telling the following to my husband:
At a nursing home, one elderly widower was celebrating his birthday, and the other residents decided to chip in and buy him a session with a prostitute.
The young woman arrived, and went over to where the man was sitting. “Happy birthday!” she purred. “I’m here to give you a very special present. Would you like super sex?”
The man thought for a moment, and answered: “Soup!”
Deary deary me.
Sweet (or possibly slightly smutty) dreams, Isabelle. You will be missed.
ps – could all the rest of you in the Canterbury poetry community please take very good care of yourselves?
I’m not sure I can face posting another obituary for a while.
A Dark Feathered Art 