Roger Noons
a port and lemon dear, please
The familiar butterflies arrive, a cocktail of
anticipation laced with trepidation; crushed ice along my spine. The darkness
calms me, but only slightly. I squeeze my eyelids together, chin up; whisper my
usual prayer. Saying those first words, I rock slowly backwards and forwards on
my heels. There is activity around me, but no-one speaks. I am ignored, which is
my preference. I take deep breaths, shuffle my feet and following a tap on my
shoulder, I tweak the waist band of my skirt and tug down my right knicker leg.
As soon as I feel the smack on my bum, I march out into the light. Blinking
rapidly helps me focus and when I hear the laughter and applause, the ice melts
and my heart warms. I bow and wave, lap up the cheers; I am at home in the
brightness; I feel the warmth. More blinking to flutter my lashes and coyly turn
towards the spotlight. Full of adrenaline I scurry across the
stage.
‘Now then
Jack, when are you going to take that cow to market?’
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