and other quiet colours.
Sharon is quiet. Here she is, dressed in dark pinstripes and miniature baseball boots, her face hidden by a curtain of silver hair.
She takes up so little space. When she speaks, it's quiet and slow but suddenly she's bigger than anyone else in the room.
She chooses words carefully and relishes each one. (Especially the dirty ones. She slows down in the middle of one poem to say, 'asshole... asshole... asshole,' very deliberately and with great sensual relish.)
She's also incredibly funny. If you read her poems to yourself, it will make you weep; if she reads them to you, it will make you howl (with laughter - alternating with weeping).
At dinner afterwards she suddenly has to leave to get the last train back to London - but the dessert she ordered hasn't come yet - at least five people leap up to do something - she's still sitting there, quiet, her legs neatly folded back under her chair, her hands in her lap - then John Mitchinson jogs back from the kitchens, brandishing a white china pudding dish covered with an napkin - (everyone is delighted - we've done someting for Sharon!) - and she's finally able to leave, taking with her a pot of QI sticky toffee pudding for the journey.