Sunday, 3 August 2014


(I had a very nice Posh Afternoon Tea on Friday with some colleagues.  Good tea; I had an excellent Darjeeling, a lovely clean clear taste, and no-one bugged me about my not having milk with it, hurrah! (why spoil decent tea with milk?).  Also good sandwiches - especially the smoked salmon and the cucumber with capers - good scones, some very good cakes, even a glass of Prosecco to finish off with.  Lovely.  But oh, my heart; the chap I have a wee crush on was there.  I know I'm being silly; it's always good to see him, even now when I know he's not free.  He's an intelligent, articulate, interesting man with an immensely likeable sense of humour.  I enjoyed having the chance to chat a little and to get to know him just a scrap more outside of work-based conversations.  But because I'm not yet over the crush, I find I'm still painfully shy around him.  I wrote this afterwards.)


Let no-one say
That shyness is a blessing
Or an attractive thing.
Shyness is a cord around my throat
A tremor in a healthy hand
A blind spot in the vision
An earthquake in the stomach.
Let no-one say it's charming
Who has not felt
That nausea of dread
At being among
Strangers, or friends.
Or seeing that chap you like
Pass by, when you've not
Had a chance to prepare
Anything at all to say.

Shyness is a fever
With no external symptoms,
Shyness is a wound
With no external scars.
The shaking hands,
The quaking heart;
Shyness is me psyching myself up
To go into that room
Full of my friends;
Losing a little more hope, each time
I see you pass by;
And never having
Anything at all to say.

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