I miss the good old days when the festive season meant something. I miss the days before the internet diluted everything and made things so damn meaningless.
I miss the days when we got invited to Christmas Parties to eat, drink, dance, tell stories & flirt with ladies who wore floral dresses with white petticoats peeping from underneath.
Now back then, people often went all out when it came to Christmas parties. If as a young man you were invited to one such party, you had to pull out your smartest clothes & wear your finest pair of shoes (which just meant over-polishing the same one pair you had used all year).
If you planned to impress a fine young lady, you had to go extra and borrow perfume from an older uncle. (Affording a perfume was a reserve for the rich)
If the lady of your interest understood and appreciated music, art & literature, you instantly got lost in each other’s company, talking about your books, movies & songs, and realising how much you shared in common.
As the Deejay shuffled between Boney M, ABBA, Pat Shange, Yvonne Chaka Chaka, Philly Lutaaya & Madilu System, you and the fine young lady would be lost in each other’s company, standing up to dance every now and again but mostly just getting lost in conversation.
She would endlessly laugh at all your jokes and occasionally ask “What are you thinking about right now?” She would ask what you thought of her dress and you’d leave no stone unturned in telling her about her lovely dress, pretty smile, and beautiful eyes.
At some point, you’d give her your jacket and boldly shiver your way through the night, being adequately warmed by her presence.
At the end of the night, you’d walk her home and watch as she sauntered off in the direction of her house. She would shyly look back – as if half hoping you were still staring at her and you would smile and wave to signal to her that you were not moving an inch until she was in the house.
Then you’d walk back home a happy man having barely touched her body but having fully enjoyed her company. You would walk with a skip in your step, thinking about all the nice things you said to each other and how life could easily make you and her partners.
Then you would enter your bedroom and be met with a beautiful but menacing stare from your girlfriend.
“Relax Sharon Stone,” You’d tell the woman on the wall poster, “She was just a friend. I am yours forever.”
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