evidence: "I’ve never considered myself a poet," says Pam Ayres, with a forthcoming new collection of her work sitting by her on the table. "If I think of poets I think of Seamus Heaney, Sylvia Plath or Ted Hughes. I don’t really belong in that category. I’m not being snobbish but my work appeals to people who aren’t drawn to the posher kinds of poetry." With an appeal as solid as hers, whether it’s poetry or not isn’t really the issue. Ayres’s cheerfully consoling rhymes about the agony of hosting dinner parties, having sex at 60 and the "selfish ache" in the heart when children leave for university are the literary equivalent of a nationwide comfort blanket. Her humdrum humour may be easy to knock but her knack for voicing the absurdities and sorrows of everyday life mean she’s the only poet who can reliably sell out theatres up and down the country. She has a new book out, Pam Ayres on Animals, and has just embarked upon a UK tour.