“Excuse me madam, but your husband’s testicles are hanging out of his shorts, thought you should know,” are not quite the words I expected to utter at a charity fundraiser, but isn’t life just full of surprises? For example, horsefly bites hurt like a mother f*****r, cheap burgers taste better from a BBQ than the gourmet type which cost thrice as much (yes thrice, not twice), and there’s nothing quite like a cold can of full fat Coke when you discover that someone’s’ garden is, in fact, a sun trap.
Yes, the charity fundraiser- come- garden-party, which I attended a couple of weeks ago, was indeed full of surprises. One of these was being recognised as the “Poetry Lady from Twitter”, after eventually succumbing to the thought, scratching away behind my eyes, that the woman peering at me out of one eye was probably someone I knew and asking her if I did, in fact, know her. To be fair, I think I was probably doing most of the leering and peering, desperately trying to not look like I was casting my husband aside and surreptitiously giving her the eye. Don’t you just hate it when you can’t place someone? You go through a microfiche search of images through your brain – every workplace, every date, and every class at school or college – till eventually you realise that it’s the woman who served you last week in TESCO. A comedy of errors ensued as I finally recalled from the deep dark recesses of my mind that she was a former housemate of an old… very old…. boyfriend. It had taken me picturing her in sparkly Gary Glitter platformed boots and applying a liberal amount of hair wax for the penny to drop and eventually it did.
I’m not entirely sure whether she placed me from “back in the day”, on account of me looking considerably happier now, and blonder, and about two stone heavier, but she did recognise me from Twitter, where has apparently been following me. Admittedly, I’m great with Twitter handles but dreadful at photos, so I hope she won’t be offended. Anyway, of all the things that she could call me, she smiled widely and declared, “Oh of course, you’re the Poetry Lady”.
Well, despite my recent foray into poetry, most of which is relatively low brow (I like to think of it as marriage of Pam Ayres and Goldie Lookin Chain), I wasn’t really expecting for that to be my moniker. But dang it, I’ll take it. From now on, I will be Poetry Lady… although also “would like a magazine or newspaper to give me a regular column please” Lady, and “please buy my books, I’ve worked jolly hard on them” Lady.