There’s been an awful lot of moon poems recently – of course. I’ve enjoyed many (Ted Hughes’ is one of my favourites) but there’s a definite tendency for the moon to bring on, well soppy thoughts – and often not that original. All of which is understandable, what with the 50 th anniversary – these round figures seem to encourage sentimentality – the role the moon’s always played in mythology, its soft silver subtlety… oh no, I’m finding myself sliding that way. I was struck by the comments I heard about the moon dust – how abrasive, tenacious and unpleasant it was. The lunar module commander, a bit like Mrs Tittlemouse, was put out by the influx of this sand on the return of the explorers. He had to fuss around, clearing up, tut tutting the while. It all reminded me of the pervasive quality of sand after beach visits – sand in the ears and hair, sand in the footwell of the car, sand in shoes days afterwards, sand in, well, the sandwiches. Maybe it’s because we’re