I’ve never been much of a one for parties and events, so don’t usually have to worry about juggling a diary full of Christmas lunches and business gatherings, and coping with burning the candle at both ends, with breakfast meetings following hard on the (high) heels of fancy meals and late night drinks.
This year, though, the holiday season celebrations seem to have started early and for some reason I am more involved than ever before.
After ten days of conferences during the days and posh-frock gatherings in the evenings, I think I am just about partied out and have no space in my mind for new writing. Here, then, is an old poem, set at a semi-formal social event:
That certain feeling
The hum of conversation kept me warm as woolly gloves
while buffet smells were circling round my head like hungry doves;
the lime-green music they were playing was enough to make you sick
and the texture of the lighting made my thumbs begin to prick,
when I heard her smile come echoing across the crowded room
and I caught in distant memory a glimpse of her perfume.
Her voice caressed my neck like tiny fingertips of ice
and I saw her laughter skittering on the dance-floor like white mice;
I touched her gentle scent and felt it warm against my skin,
but her name upon my tongue was bitter-tasting, like cheap gin.