I am the first to leave the Woolshed

I tried sneaking out of the common
area, but I was dressed in my jacket
and carrying wodehouse and was spotted.
Come and have a drink.
There was a styrofoam box full of white
wine bottles. A gift from some tasting.
We're all going out dancing.
And soon I was encouraged and I followed
them into the hot night to the Woolshed.
We pushed ourselves on the dancefloor
and all the whites tops burned a
fluorescent blue and we danced in a crush
to the Bee Gees and Abba and all
those songs I realized I was the only
person in the bar to hear the first time
around. Was there another 40 year old?
Okay a 30 year old? No, Michael, there
was barely a 20 year old in there.
Someone spilled a pitcher of beer then
I realized it was me. Louise from Essex
was exhausted and sat in a window box
and then, when her song came on
nine seconds later, she revived and
with a flourish began dancing barefoot
in the window well. There were two
sisters from Maine and one was caring
for the other, but it was hard
to tell which way the caring went. Then
there was Paul, who knew how to dance. He
was doing something with his wrists over
his shaved head, and I knew that was something
that did not arrive in the human embryo
pre-1970. I was lost to that style and
so I bid my adieus and headed home, the
first to leave the Woolshed. In the kitchen
I found a kettle and a teapot and a teabag
and borrowed a litre of milk and made
a pot of tea and drank the whole thing
in my room with the green fan lazily
whomping and wodehouse finally in my
hilarious hand.