I Won’t Dance; Don’t Ask Me

Thanks to my sisinlawann for sending me this link:

Despite his recently diagnosed restless legs, the Hub can’t dance any more.  The Hub can barely walk downstairs any more without being out of breath.  We thought it was the CFS/ME but when he went to the doctor about his legs she had him take a blood sample.  Turns out he’s anaemic.  It’s quite rare in men so he has to go to the hospital for an invasion.*

*The Hub swears she said ‘examination’ but from the disgusting things they might possibly be doing to him, ‘invasion’ sounds nearer the mark.

The silver lining to all this, of course, is that at least it’s him and not me.  I can’t put a large forkful of food in my mouth without gagging; it’s why I don’t eat trifle.

The Hub won’t be doing this any time soon (though he will probably manage the first bit of the video):

I used to love dancing.  I can tap dance, and I have three certificates and a bronze medal to prove it.  I also have scarring on my arm: as a child, I swung round and round in dancing joy and accidentally clocked the dog and he bit me.

Um, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration for dramatic effect: our aged golden labrador, Bruce, happened to be yawning as I span spun spinned whirled around and my arm went in his mouth and he licked me.  I shouldn’t malign that beautiful old dog; he was so gentle, the budgie would land on his head and peck him and he would run under the couch to get away from it.

This isn’t him: