Not Us

Not us,

us, who danced to Alexis Korner and The Chants, 

or the Steel Band at the Jacaranda

and walked home after, singing, 

arm in arm through the Red Light District.

Not us

Not us,

who danced and smiled and winked 

and thumbs upped each other

over the shoulders of future boyfriends, 

who didn’t know it yet. 

Not us.

Not us, 

who went to parties at 26a 

and ended up always, sitting on the floor

with men we didn’t like very much, 

sharing their spliffs

and listening to turgid conversation with increasing hilarity.

Then laughing, laughing, laughing till they left in despair

and we could stretch out and sleep where we were. 

Not us.

Not us, 

who wandered through Europe without maps or money, 

or sense of direction.

Who got lost a lot, 

but didn’t get raped or murdered. 

So far as we can remember.

Not us, 

who charmed hoteliers into letting us stay for free. 

Who got up early (too cold to sleep),

and cleaned the kitchen and the floors of the hostel in Laumiere 

for the first time in many years.

Then sat on the stairs and said ‘No Pasaran’ to everyone, until it had dried,

explaining carefully in languages we did not speak, 

why this was necessary. 

Not us.

Not us, 

who, with wide eyed innocence and impressively bad French 

failed to understand the policemen’s demands,

‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’

Until our new friends with the nice smiles and no papers had disappeared.

‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’ 

Sod off! 

Not us, not us.

Not us, 

who swam off the rocks, with a man we’d met in a cafe,

because he said we could.

And swam and swam until two policemen came, 

(one very stern and one very twinkly),

and said we couldn’t.

Nor could we leave the rocks without clothes on,

or with clothes clinging to our still wet bodies, 

or lie on the rocks until we were dry,

in case we disconcerted the traffic or populace. 

This being the main street in Trieste.

Not us.

Not us, 

who lived in a house ‘typique du Turque’ with a water pump in the garden

and a toilet, also ‘Typique du Turque’, which made us very ill indeed.

But the parties were good and the conversations interesting,

even though no one spoke English.

And we learned to speak some Albanian, which was always handy.

And we survived to sit thirstily by a hot, dusty roadside and fantasise 

about the ice cold mountain water streaming through the streets of Pec,

and even about the water pump in the garden. 

Not us.

Not us,

who left Barcelona dressed in summer skirts and sandals 

and arrived late by a dark roadside in snowy Andorra,

at a place full of ‘apres ski’ types with plummy voices and fat wallets,

inviting us into their warm hotel to buy us drinks and hot food,

to warm us up, they said.

No chance! 

No class traitors, us! Not us, 

Not us.

Not us,

who hid our friend in the wardrobe when her many times ex

boyfriend came to call, with his wide smile and black umbrella.

He knew she was there.

Well, we told him. We liked him a lot and knew she did too.

He wanted her back and she wanted him back,

but she stayed in the wardrobe

and they missed their opportunity. 

Not like us,

Not like us.

They’re not like us, 

these two old women in the mirror 

wearing our jeans and our smiles.

Not us, 

they can’t be us.

Not us.

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Not us.