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Peter himself was modest about his poems. When he got a letter telling him that work of his was to be included in a literary magazine, he gave it to us to read without saying anything.

‘Congratulations!’ cried Joost. ‘You’re going to be famous, man!’

‘I want a signed copy,’ said André. ‘They’ll be worth a fortune later.’

‘It’s a magazine,’ Peter corrected him, ‘not a collection. That will come later.’

We were proud that such a great poetic talent wanted to be our friend, even though we were not capable of properly judging his talent. ‘That lad over there is Peter Seegers,’ Joost said one evening in the Talk of the Town disco to a guy at least two metres tall, wearing an earring. He pointed in our direction. ‘You know, from the Sweet Lady Jane. He’s a poet. The writer Gerrit Komrij has called him a great talent.’ Joost had had too much to drink.

‘Who?’

‘Gerrit Komrij! Christ, man. Surely you know who Gerrit Komrij is? Comes from these parts, too. When he says you’re a great talent, then you are one. You can be sure of that.’