Yet More Dancing

An old pic of me dancing (in the rain)
The reason for oldmedancing is shared below

Thank you to everyone who made suggestions for my forthcoming book’s #I’mNotAllowedToSayTheNameYet dance song. I decided to go with – well, I had to, really, didn’t I? – the suggestion from ME Lewis at France Says:

Picture me boogying to this in my bedroom after hitting Send to my publisher.

You’ll have to picture it, because there are no pictures of it;  I haven’t boogied yet. Right after sending off my manuscript, I succumbed to a bacterial infection which saw me in bed for days, gulping down not one but two courses of those increasingly hard-to-get miracle pills, antibiotics. I’m on the mend now but it was touch and go for a while there whether I’d be able to eat all of my Maltesers. I’m happy to report that as of today I have none left.

When looking for a song, I came across this:

As much as I’d love to have used it, it’s not dancey enough. I found another which is quite dancey but, sadly, not entirely appropriate for a family-friendly blog. But go look it up; Google #MENOPAUSE MONDAYS®A Singing Uterus Explains Perimenopause and Menopause. Hilarious in an I-can’t-believe-what-I’m-seeing way.

The family and I – Hub, me, Spud, DisgustedwiththeTories Boy, and our newest member, Daddy’s Boy – were all dancing for joy this week, for an entirely different reason.

Debra at Breathe Lighter asked me a while back what Alex plans to do post-uni. I am now allowed to tell you that he got into not one, but two drama schools, and has accepted a funded place on a one year course at Oxford School of Drama.

When we heard the news, we all did this:

Just to be clear – we’re all Laura Linney, not Karl on the right, who is every new graduate who has just realised the fun’s over; real life starts and oh no! here come the bills.

Fortunately, that’s not Alex. He won’t start work at McDonald’s for at least another twelve months.

 

‘You Look So Daft’

Thus spake my beloved husband yesterday,

when I completed my latest challenge.

Writing yesterday’s 101/1001 post coincided with a month’s worth of rain coming down in 24 hours (sadly, no hyperbole there).  It seemed like the perfect opportunity to complete Challenge No. 20: Dance in the rain.

I put on Mango Groove’s Hometalk – the best dance track, ever; I’m having it at my funeral – ordered the Hub to pick up his camera, and stepped out into our sodden garden.

Here is the result (excuse the blurry pics – I was moving and it was raining):

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If you hit the arrow quickly, you can see me dance.

I danced barefoot in the rain for 4.14 minutes.  It was liberating to do something and not give a damn about what anyone else thought of me.  Some of the neighbours must have noticed, given our low fences and shared walls.  I don’t care.  I had a blast.

There was just one problem: it was Peter Kay’s fine rain, and I wasn’t drenched.

Next time I dance in the rain, there had better be a hurricane or the Hub’s going to cop it.

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Dance Like You’re Bonkers

I watched the Eurovision Song Contest last night.  This is my favourite entry, not least because I was looking for something to write about for Sidey’s theme, dance. 

A girl in a cone hat and fairy costume, pretending to blow a horn while riding a unicycle, is my idea of dancing.  I feel so lucky to have witnessed it.  Utterly barmy.  I may have to move to Moldova.

Watch out for flashing images.

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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: