Today I was sat crying in the graveyard behind work, after hearing the devastating news my friend Mary had passed away unexpectedly. This very strange prancing mohicaned pony dog walked by and posed like this. She would have loved (and laughed at) this strange little dog.
Some people would say dancing is beautiful and graceful, and it is. It’s all that and more ~ it’s joyful and soul warming. But it’s brutal at the same time.
My dance teacher says when it starts to hurt is when you’re starting to dance. This is true when I rumba extending every muscle and sinew, to create a graceful line. It is also especially true when someone back heels you in a social dance, scraping you from ankle to floor. That fucking hurts!
This is what happened on Saturday night at the Rivoli ~ three days later the bruising has definitely developed and is working its way down my foot … *retch*
Last year I missed all the Spitalfields Tea Dances due to illness and recovering from the operation. This year I was determined to go to as many as possible and most definitely the last one of the season. I only ever go with Tony and I managed to persuade him [it wasn’t hard] to come to the last one of the year.
We met a few other people we know from our dancing circles and danced the lunch time away. I’ve started to venture into leading (without any lessons) which is even more tricky when you’re trying to navigate fifty odd other couples.
Michael even got Sharon and I to do a 6-legged rumba, which was great and stressful, especially when I had to lead (because I fucked-up). Looking forward to next season.
I had a bit of a rush to get out of the hotel this morning, so ended up doing my makeup in the (hire) car.
“Always do your Cupid Bow first” said the MAC makeup lady who helped me with my dance makeup earlier in the year. She definitely didn’t say “then turn it into a heart” … but this did amuse me… too much!
As I stepped into Bishopsgate Institute's Ballroom, I realise I hadn't been here in probably 18 months. Not since before surgery and probably a while before then too. The lighting's different, as is the set-up. In fact it's all different, but lovely and atmospheric. And more importantly, it's a dance floor and I have my feet on it.
For four hours we whisked and weaved our way around the floor; we jived and rumba'd; we sweated and laughed. By the end of the night we could barely walk, but it was all worth it.
I’m lying on my back in my living room, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out if I’m ok or injured – nano-seconds earlier I was stood in my kitchen. What. A. Twat! What an utter twat!
I’d been practicing my rumba turns to try and sharpen them up – my rope spin, is at times ropey, so you know socks, shiny floor, great music why wouldn’t you … fucking disaster!
… I manage to keep the 360° turn tight and start to settle and … lose my balance, unable to unwrap my feet, I reach out to try and steady myself, but find nothing but air, falling through the doorway to the living room, scraping my tit on the doorframe on the way, akin to Del Boy falling through the bar.
So here I lie prostrate on the floor with bruised and scraped tit.
We, and by we, I mean Nick, spotted a boat named Verity passing by just outside their flat… I didn’t notice for about 30 seconds it had my name…!