The Plough

Date: 12/21/2025

My husband wants to go for drinks. Eager. Festive. Full of good intentions and Christmas cheer. I’m not keen. I’d much rather stay home with the comfort of a roaring fire and my cat Monkey, curled into a warm, judgmental loaf on my lap. The house smells of wood smoke and safety. No noise. No eye contact. No pretending. He twists my arm. It doesn’t take much. It never does. I’m a soft touch. Emotionally pliable dough. It’ll be good for me, I tell myself. It’s pissing it down outside. Biblical. Rain slaps the pavement with intent. The kind of rain that soaks you from the inside out. Perhaps the universe is trying to tell me something. A flare gun fired into the night sky. It’s not too late to turn back. Run home. Clutch Monkey. Become one with the sofa. We proceed. We need to get ourselves out there again. That’s what people say, isn’t it? Out there. As if friendship lives feral and wild and we’ve just been lazy hunters. We’re too stuck in our own little bubbles. We don’t have many friends. Even less of a social life. We used to. I used to be the life and soul of the party — loud, effortless, confident. First one on the dance floor, last to leave. But time shifts. Quietly. Cruelly. My friends have young children now. Early nights and fresh starts are their life rafts — survival mode wrapped in bedtime stories and soft-play trauma. I get it. I’ve been there. The Plough is teeming with people. A Tudor building with cross-cross windows, glowing like a beacon in the dark. Quaint. Cosy. Inviting. A lie, it turns out. The bass rattles my bones, vibrating through my ribcage. Good God. I’ve already had half a bottle of wine and I still don’t feel ready for this. Most unusual. Normally by now I’d be floating somewhere above my body, confidence loosely tethered. We walk in. The noise wraps itself around us immediately. Thick. Wet. Alive. An organism of movement and Christmas cheer. It breathes, laughs and spills beer down itself. People wear Christmas jumpers — ironic, aggressive, itchy-looking things. Cheeks flushed with merriment and alcohol. I’m not feeling it. Not yet. Perhaps I need more wine? Maybe one more Prosecco will lift my soul to this level of enlightenment? It doesn’t. We awkwardly gravitate to a radiator. Our radiator. Our usual spot. Our sanctuary. I press myself against the comforting heat. Mat clutches his beer like it’s the only thing anchoring him. He’s uncomfortable too. He’s relying on me — always me — to make small talk, to crack the door open, to drag us up the invisible social ladder, rung by rung. Zusanna from work appears. Christmas hat on. Eyes half-baked, glazed with booze and obligation. “Amanda!” she beams, wide and theatrical, like she’s thrilled. She isn’t. I can see beneath the lenses. The flicker. The disappointment. Ah fuck. Amanda is here. She hugs me. It’s stiff. Performative. Two bodies politely colliding. She’ll disappear now. I already know it. She’s done her bit. Played her role. And then — just as rehearsed — she turns, the crowd parting for her. The Jesus of The Plough. I swallow the sadness down. It tastes bitter. Familiar. Perhaps I’m not as good at holding conversation as I once was. We escape outside. Still pissing it down. Still as miserable as I feel inside. But I can breathe out here. Air without expectation. Space without judgement. Until — of course — the space is invaded by a pack of Christmas jumper–wearing youth. Loud. Brash. Effortless. Confidence dripping off them like spilt cider. It hits me like prosecco to the face. I was like that once. I’m not anymore. I have inverted. Folded inwards. Built a wall no fucker can climb. I am safe here, sealed off and fortified. I miss the bravado of my youth. But now it makes me deeply uncomfortable — as uncomfortable as my restless hands and feet that don’t know where to go. I never know how to stand. I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. Too tight. Too awkward. Too alien — even to me. The youth eventually move on. Pub crawl, apparently. “The 12 Days of Christmas.” “Do you know my grandfather?” one asks before he leaves. “Do we look that old?” I joke. No answer. I take that as a yes. Turns out his grandfather has passed. I offer condolences, wish him a merry christmas. My timing is impeccable, as always. I demolish my wine. My mini bottle of confidence. Time for another. We fight our way back through the crowds. Liquid courage — sloshing, unreliable. I’m squiffy now. Tipsy Amanda clocks in. Not full power — but the version that doesn’t clench her arsehole quite so tightly. Loosey-goosey. Even the band sounds better. Miracles do happen. Outside, we chat to a band member. Dyed red hair. Nice chap. “Do you like Christmas?” I ask. “Hate it.” The irony is delicious. Christmas jumper. Red hair. Deep festive resentment. He has three teenage daughters. I tell him I feel sorry for him. He says it’s fine. He barely sees them. He’s playing tonight. Middle-aged rock band. Tributes. “What’s the band called?” I ask. “Tale of Two Titties?” I mishear. “Cities,” Mat corrects me. Head. Gutter. He laughs awkwardly, already retreating. “Come and dance,” he says. “I will!” He’s gone. Back to the radiator. Me and Mat. Huddled. Anchored. Two barnacles clinging to warmth and familiarity. “Jenny!” I call as she attempts a stealth pass. “Amanda! So nice to see you,” she says — or something similar. The wine has softened the edges. She hugs me. Awkward. Empty. Her eyes are already scanning for escape routes. “You should catch up with Jim,” she tells Mat. Jim. Her husband. The alcoholic. “Ooo, is he here tonight?” I ask, hopeful. “Not tonight. Childcare duties. Maybe another time.” Which means never. She smiles. “Better get myself a drink. Nice to chat.” My soul sighs. A room full of people and I couldn’t feel more alone. Maybe we smell. Maybe I radiate creep energy. Maybe I should have saged myself before leaving the house. We get more drinks. But when we return — Someone is at our radiator. The bastards. Honestly. The audacity. If I were another mini bottle down, I’d shoulder-check him into next week. That radiator is sacred. Ours. And now it’s rubbing arse with a stranger. “Let’s go outside,” Mat says softly. He knows. He always knows. Zusanna is out there, chatting with the Plough King — the elderly ghost who lives here. Who once told me he was fifty and I almost choked on my wine. He looks eighty-five on a good day. Zusanna laughs easily. Holds his feeble arm. Santa hat jingling. Effortless. How does she do it? I feel a sharp pang. Jealous. Envy. Something uglier. I fantastise — only briefly — about yanking her hat down and suffocating her smarmy rosy-cheeked head. I don’t, of course. I’m just so awkward. My small talk lands wrong. My presence seems to confuse people. Maybe I’m out of practice. Maybe my aura screams leave me alone. Do I even care anymore? The band sounds better now. My husband hates the bass. I love it. It rattles something loose. My foot taps. My body softens. Kate walks in. Lovely Kate. School-mum Kate. Writer Kate. She looks rushed. Dishevelled. Somewhere else entirely. “Kate!” I call. Fear flashes across her face. “Oh shit. Not her.” “I’m running late,” she pants. “Meeting mum and the girls. Catch up later, yeah?” She flees. Another tally mark. Impressive collection now. It stings. Just a bit. I thought we bonded once. Neurodiversity. Creativity. Motherhood. Maybe I missed the signs? Maybe that’s the point. It’s okay. I’m with my husband. My anchor. My human radiator. The one who sees me. I could weep. The toxic isolation of a thriving pub. Our pub. Once a home for feral souls and drunken strays. Now I’m an intruder. A spare part. No use to anyone. Oh well. There’s always more wine. At the bar, Zusanna’s boyfriend serves us. The grump, as I call him. Nice enough, if nice were wrapped in a sheet of Dull. He looks at me like I’ve personally wronged him. His eyes say it plainly: Oh. Not you. I know why. I knocked over two drinks once. Not one. Two. You’d think I’d committed a war crime. The sighing. The glass clearing. The martyrdom. He thinks I’m a lousy drunk. He’s not wrong. I just wish I were drunker. The Romanian barman is here too. He’s definitely killed people. I see it in his eyes — those haunting baby blues. He sweeps glass like he’s erasing evidence. A misogynistic prick with delusions of grandeur. Once told us his life should be a film. Spoiler: it shouldn’t. Before the music finally claims me, I bump into another familiar face. I never remember his name. I’ve been calling him Andy for years. It’s Alex. Not Andy. I only realise this far too late, as always. He’s standing awkwardly to the side of the dance floor, bopping his head in that half-committed way — not dancing, not not dancing. Hovering. I know that stance. Intimately. It’s the universal posture of someone who wants to disappear without being rude. “Matanda!” I yell, far too loudly. He smiles, politely. Awkwardly. The joke doesn’t quite land like it once did. Mat + Alex + Amanda = Matanda. Once upon a time, this would’ve killed. We’d have laughed. Bonded. Become momentary best friends in the way pub friendships bloom and die in the same breath. I try to make small talk. Weather. Music. Life. But his eyes drift. His body’s here, his mind is somewhere else entirely — probably already scripting the sexual fantasy he’ll be replay later with his Tinder date. I don’t blame him. Escape is seductive. Eventually, I give up. I can feel myself fading mid-conversation, like poor reception. Fuck it. Let’s dance. I throw myself into a sea of people. Bodies slam into me like I’m invisible. Arms in the air, all fucks have left the building. Jenny dances like an ancient hippy, high on oxygen alone. For one brief, glorious second, I’m pulled into a circle. We do some kind of can-can. One foot in. One foot out. I belong. Then I don’t. Booted out. Two left feet. Forever shunned. I return to Mat. He bops gently, alone and unbothered. I smile. My heart swells. There he is. My world. How could I ever feel alone when I have him? And then — A girl crashes into me. Hard. My wine glass flies out of my hand, splintering onto the floor like fractured friendships. For a split second, I think — at last. Someone clumsy. Someone chaotic. Someone on my wavelength. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” she says, mortified. “I’ll get you another drink, I promise.” Zusanna’s boyfriend glares at me. Of course he does. The girl disappears into the crowd. I never see her again. But maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s the sign. The universe tapping me gently on the shoulder this time. Maybe it’s time to call it a night. This isn’t a dream. It’s a waking nightmare. But as we stumble home — two drunken, friendless skunks — I realise something quietly important. I’m not alone. I just don’t belong to the crowd anymore. And maybe… that’s okay.