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.
![party](https://alicecastleauthor.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/09/party-1.jpg)
‘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.