I don’t do many conferences these days. I wrote about one such recently, here. I was however reminded of a poem I wrote after trailing to the Italian Lakes for a conference on the ‘Structure of the Law and Legal Practices’ or some such tosh. The Italian Lakes, I ask you. You could see them shimmering outside as we breakfasted before we were ushered into a bunker fit for a Cold War film set or Bond villain. As you will gather my attempts to draw some sanity out of such wasted opulence by calling home rather failed me…
It’s not that I’m homesick, I like to go;
It’s fun, an experience, I’m spoiled, I know.
But when I’m alone, I reach for the phone
To send you a text, so I can show
That I’m not vexed, I don’t feel hollow.
The rooms are five star, the food just the best;
The staff are caring, they spoil each guest.
But here in my room, I’m enveloped in gloom;
You haven’t replied, I know I’m a pest.
Maybe you’ve tried, really I’ll give it a rest.
We go to the sights, ancient and rare;
We take to the lake, boundless, azure.
But at the first break, to relieve my dull ache
I stare at the screen, silent and bare
Desperate to scream: ‘Do you really care?’
We shake and we smile; we’ll all meet again.
In France, in the spring, or autumn, in Spain.
But behind the false grin, my head’s in a spin
I’m in so much pain, it’s been such a strain
As I sit on the plane, thinking: ‘Will I see you again?’