Dancing til it aches, laughing til it hurts

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So tonight consisted of dancing to the point of collapse; laughing* (*cackling) until I ached to my core… and friends, very good friends.

It’s that special first Tuesday of the month where I’m double stacking the night between fitsteps and distraction club, zinging between Liverpool St, Highbury, Oxford St and Crouch End. But to miss out one just wouldn’t be the same.

Fitsteps: waltz, quickstep, samba, *gasping*, foxtrot, cha cha cha, jive, *pleas for forgiveness*, tango ~ slinking, gliding, hip-action, pose, transitions, going in the right direction, going in the wrong, kicks, flicks; doing stuff to words I don’t understand … bottacha (or something akin to that); sweating, lots of sweating… and narrowly missing being knocked over by a set of quickstepping men!

Done >> Oxford Street and Distraction Club (DC).

It consisted of acting out various knee-etiquette scenarios (including slide-in-and-spread); talking to a woman in the toilet about her non-bra protected side-boob and the risk of escapage; howling at various songs about ex-relationships and their painful demise; being lofted to the air by a man (the fuck) … I screamed; frightening people with a long forgotten Geordie accent … and most of that was just in the breaks.

’twas a good good night!

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