Poker Face

I know, I know, any excuse to post THAT photo, but even so, there was an interesting article in yesterday's Times by Frieda Hughes on the relevance today of W H Auden's poem, Casino. This comment is particularly chilling:

“Lucky/ Were the few” — there must always be a winner somewhere, so that all the others can be persuaded to continue and lose — “and it is possible that none were loved” because there is little chance for the habitual gambler to form a relationship with anyone other than the interchangeable men and women who deal the cards or spin the wheel.

Having finally learnt the rules of poker, but still having to have it explained to me that being left with 70 pence at the end of the evening meant that I'd actually lost £4.30 of my £5 stake and not won, as I stupidly been crowing about, I'm going to take the warning that gamblers are dead to both the romantic and creative life to heart, and get out while I can - besides there are only so many teenagers I can persuade to play with me. I suppose I could take up bingo but then those really really bad Sharon Osbourne Bingo ads have put me off for life, and anyway, writing seems to me to be enough dangerous excitement for one woman. Putting out anything that means so much to you and having to actually court the critics publicly is surely the biggest gamble of all. Pass me a Martini someone.

And my writing prompt today is: The biggest gamble you can imagine