One of the most terrifying nights of the year looms. Though of course, it’s not really, or wouldn’t be, for a normal person. It’s a party, for goodness’ sake. People enjoy them. But for me, it’s assumed the proportions and scariness of a yeti standing on the shoulders of the Abominable Snowman, the Phantom of the Opera and your own selection of the nastiest vampires in the last 20 fang films.
‘A coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave die but once,’ said old Willie Shakespeare. How right he was. I don’t know whether it’s being a wimp, or a nervous wreck, or just not being an outgoing person, but the social forays I used to get through reasonably easily now seem insurmountable. I once even had a job where I had to go to parties – it was part of my work. I hated that part of the job, even then, but not nearly as much as I now hate parties.
Ho hum. I shall get through it. Nothing is ever as bad as I think it’s going to be (because nothing ever could be). And who knows, when I actually get there, I might even enjoy it. I said might.