My social life glows momentarily
on winter Sunday evenings
in The Pub Quiz league.
The newbie knows the taste of blood
is not red, but quiets her mouth;
she feels she lacks “experience”.
A good team needs one who always knows
who methok’d with Abendigo
and sunk the Wurble fleet,
but most of us are ballast.
I’ve got my special anorak
that is hardly ever asked.
An encompassing taste of flowers,
wilting in a hop bitter foliage,
gives gentle colour to the evening.
This poem, published by Equinox in Spring 2003, broke my seven year duck.