Poems and Stuff

One of the performers (name?) struts his stuff at Fred and Di's party in Horsley.

They'd hired the village hall to celebrate Di's 70th and Fred's 75th birthdays, and the weather was all we could have wished for! Food was brought to share, and I did well on the piled-high plate front, despite my nerves about how to cope without eating gluten. We sat in the garden (that's me, my friends Jacqueline, Jenn, Angela, Fiona, Lyn and a couple of other new faces) and talked and watched small boys playing football on the sports field beyond, until it was time to go inside the hall and listen to poetry, music and more. Everyone had been invited to do a 'turn', 1940s style.

I read a few poems by other people, having failed to write anything recently (I tell a lie, I haven't even tried, but I do feel that something is stirring in my undergrowth, albeit faintly). They seemed to go down well. I realise now that it's churlish of me not to perform on such occasions, even though I don't really want to! I can do it, so it's my gift to the hosts and guests. I don't mind public speaking: I'm much more anxious about tripping over an electric cable, or tearing my clothes, or making some other undignified mistake, rather than what actually happens when I'm in the spotlight and open my mouth.

Lyn was leaving early, so I opted to go back with her, which meant missing the tug-of-war and dancing (!) but did mean that I could lie in the sunshine in the cabin and finish my trashy thriller, and then have a 20-minute snooze with Bomble. Bliss!