If I want a man in odd clothes and dodgy facial hair shouting at me and fifty other people, telling me what to do with my left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot I have two choices.
One, join the army.
Two, go to a ceilidh.
Neither really appeals. So that's why on Saturday night I didn't do any dancing, but I did get to talk to lots of friends at Chris and Eliz's wedding party. And because there was no bar in the hall, they were sober for a change. Apart from Big Chris, who promptly disappeared to the local Off-license to get some cans, and by the time the evening ended he was drunk enough to dance without the fifty quid financial recompense he said he originally wanted for participating.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment