My OperaGot Your Pension Book Dear!
Thursday, September 13, 2007 8:08:21 PM
"It's a friendly club Dearie! Have your pension book ready. Bring your own denture cup mind!" - an ageist jibe directed against a folk dance club I sometimes visit.
As I meander slowly (and reluctantly) into the bus pass(age)bracket I guess such remarks will soon be directed against me. Me! Superstud! Boy wonder! I wonder!
You don't see it coming do you? Age kind of creeps up on you like some silent snake. The only time you notice is when the fangs form an '0' on certain birthdays. Still no use bewailing my fate I suppose!
Which brings me back to one of my hobbies - country or folk dancing. It's treated in the UK as something you did at school and soon forgot. Not surprising really. When I was in juniors - separated classes and playgrounds - strictly no mixing - except for the occasional dancing lesson.
For this event the partition between the two parts of Elmwood school were thrown back (well creaked and scratched maybe). The boys trooped in looking the picture of embarassment. The girls were going to get their revenge for every sleight received at the hands of boys. We had to hold hands with girls! Girls! How sissy can you get....and also in line with other boys. A session of this left the boys cowed and the girls triumphant.
At my senior school we did nothing of the sort. Far too butch for that we were - strictly games, games and even more games ........ the manly sports (groan!). When released we went into the discos strutting our stuff like John Travolta (or a very poor imitation). We thought we were the bees knees. Chances are our anatomy knowledge needed upgrading.
So how did I get back into folk dancing. It was a failure to pull at discos. The white suit didn't quite cut the mustard (how's that for a mixed metaphore!). I was either refused or the girl sprinted for the toilet after one dance. Quasimodo would have done better (ring any bells anyone?).
Bernard, my usual hunting partner, and I were doing about as well as the Elmer Fudd brothers when one of his colleagues sold him some tickets to a charity ceilidh. After recovering from the shock I thought - well we can't do any worse! Turned out the charity was one supported by the lady mayoress and all the local girl guide troops. The place was heaving with young attractive women - and relatively few young men. Even we couldn't fail to acquire suitable company on this occasion.
So it wasn't any noble reason for getting back into country dancing. No appeal to tradition. Nothing but plain, old fashioned lust. Can't beat it can you?
As I meander slowly (and reluctantly) into the bus pass(age)bracket I guess such remarks will soon be directed against me. Me! Superstud! Boy wonder! I wonder!
You don't see it coming do you? Age kind of creeps up on you like some silent snake. The only time you notice is when the fangs form an '0' on certain birthdays. Still no use bewailing my fate I suppose!
Which brings me back to one of my hobbies - country or folk dancing. It's treated in the UK as something you did at school and soon forgot. Not surprising really. When I was in juniors - separated classes and playgrounds - strictly no mixing - except for the occasional dancing lesson.
For this event the partition between the two parts of Elmwood school were thrown back (well creaked and scratched maybe). The boys trooped in looking the picture of embarassment. The girls were going to get their revenge for every sleight received at the hands of boys. We had to hold hands with girls! Girls! How sissy can you get....and also in line with other boys. A session of this left the boys cowed and the girls triumphant.
At my senior school we did nothing of the sort. Far too butch for that we were - strictly games, games and even more games ........ the manly sports (groan!). When released we went into the discos strutting our stuff like John Travolta (or a very poor imitation). We thought we were the bees knees. Chances are our anatomy knowledge needed upgrading.
So how did I get back into folk dancing. It was a failure to pull at discos. The white suit didn't quite cut the mustard (how's that for a mixed metaphore!). I was either refused or the girl sprinted for the toilet after one dance. Quasimodo would have done better (ring any bells anyone?).
Bernard, my usual hunting partner, and I were doing about as well as the Elmer Fudd brothers when one of his colleagues sold him some tickets to a charity ceilidh. After recovering from the shock I thought - well we can't do any worse! Turned out the charity was one supported by the lady mayoress and all the local girl guide troops. The place was heaving with young attractive women - and relatively few young men. Even we couldn't fail to acquire suitable company on this occasion.
So it wasn't any noble reason for getting back into country dancing. No appeal to tradition. Nothing but plain, old fashioned lust. Can't beat it can you?
