Didn't want to be your ghost

Friday night finds a group of us under the London Bridge railway arches, queuing to for The Last Tuesday Society's Halloween Ball. We are given bananas to munch on as we wait. I had a crumpet and a glass of milk for dinner so eat three, then worry that I'll get potassium poisoning. Inside it is dark, lit with dim red lamps, a labyrinth of a dark room. What feels like room upon room stretching away underneath the old brick, filled with shadowy bodies in all manner of elaborate costumes. Mad Hatters and the Living Dead, a woman in gold sequins and tulle, sprouting antlers. Lots of fake blood. C and I run about, giddy with the surreal, head off to make new friends, bump into them hours later having forgotten their names. Masks, whitened faces, blood dripping scarlet from lips. There is a 40 piece orchestra, a chocolate fountain, and, randomly, hidden in a back room we stumble upon many hours after arriving, two hot tubs. A few of us have come along and we disperse and re-group, lose some, find others, push through crowds of dancers, fingers entwined, scanning the crowds.

Later, we emerge, cross the river in search of a taxi. Pause for a moment on the bridge to look at London lit up around us, the expanse of black water. We don't get to bed until gone 5.

Saturday evening and I am in Suffolk, in a tiny village hall, listening to O and his brother sing, play the guitar. Outside it is cold and inky black, I can see the Milky Way.