By the time I get round to uploading this, I will probably know who has been voted off
Strictly Come Dancing this week. As it is, I'm writing this in Notepad and will have to upload it later, as I'm on the train and Orange 3G perplexingly classifies my blog as "pornography" and unsuitable for anyone under the age of 18. Obviously my last entry raised more eyebrows than was immediately apparent.
So, I'm probably on decidedly safer territory if I stick with good, wholesome family entertainment like Strictly. I'm obviously getting dangerously middle-aged and middle-class, as I'm an ardent Strictly fan. So much so, that Alison and I are going to see it live when they go on tour in the New Year. Excellent.
We had our staff ball a few weeks back. We all headed down to the Kensington Olympia, ate fairly forgettable food, drank lots of free drink and generally had a good time. As part of the entertainment they had a bit of Strictly Come Dancing competition with various of our partners dancing with professional dancers and being judged. Brendan Cole and Lilya Kopilova from the show were there.
After they were done, and whichever partner it was won and was given their trophy, the dancing became decidedly less sophisticated and artful. The DJ put on the dance music and thousands of accountants descended on the dance floor. I resisted the pressure to dance, informing people that they'd have to get several more drinks into me before I'd go anywhere near the dancefloor... Well, being as the drink was free, this wasn't too difficult to achieve. I went and had a dance, in so far as my uncoordinated flailings can be called dancing. I don't have a problem with rhythm - I'm pretty good at keeping to the beat - I just have a problem with moving my limbs in anything like a sensible fashion and without causing bodily harm to my fellow dancers.
So, I danced for about an hour or so... Me and a thousand other dinner jacketed men and evening gown-ed women, aged anywhere between 20 and 60, letting our hair down and taking a break from our hours sat at desks counting other people's money.
"This is weird", I think to myself, my and many other arms raised in the air as
Faithless' Insomnia booms out at us.
"Dun-dun-da-dun-dun-dun-da-dun-dun-dun-da-dun-dun-dun-dun". I wonder how silly we all look, sweating away in our black suits, dancing with other people's spouses to 10 year old records. I can't bring myself to worry for too long though, carried away as I am by alcohol and deep bass notes and the sheer physicality of this slinking, gyrating mass of people...
It's a curious thing, but it's strangely liberating... Moving to the music, following the beat from song to song. I am, admittedly, relieved that I don't have to try to impress anyone with my "moves" - I don't think Alison really saw me dance till after we were wed, by which point it was too late - but perhaps that just leaves me freer to enjoy myself. I doubt I'll make a habit of it, and I'd rather be able to dance properly, Strictly style, than to do anything that might fit in at a club, but perhaps once in a while it's fun to give it a go.
***
And lo, it was Dominic who left. Not to worry.
