SWB hits the dance floor


Test-driving some of my dance moves in the garden in my new Catalan rig-out

“Card declined, sorry,” says the cashier at M&S. “No it can’t be! I’m just after registering my new one” I bleat. But no, the new one is nowhere to be seen, and I‘m standing gormlessly holding the old card, now invalid. I’ve just realized I’m overdrawn on my current account AND the only other card in my wallet is one I never use because I don’t recall the pin. It’s a perfect storm, like being a student again, or being back at work but paying for two children’s childcare so still being without a bean. “Let me ring my husband,” I tell the man, who looks nonplussed by now. “Will I just set it behind the counter?” he sighs, “Probably best.” I mutter.

LSB lands down, all suited and booted for the wedding we’re supposed to be at, like NOW, except I’m pissing about, making us late.  I’m ‘White Knighting’ he tells a different cashier, who seems quite taken with him. (LSB, saving the day again). I, on the other hand am feeling sad and deflated, and looking anything but smart. I’ve got the post-holiday blues and to be frank I’m wondering if I have it in me to get dolled up for a night of frivolity. The Barcelona attacks left me shaken and with all this  Trump v Kim Jung II (or whatever the fuck’s he called) business I’m all a-quiver. Every time North Korea is mentioned on the news I jump a foot in the air and LSB is stealthily hiding newspapers and leaping up to switch off the radios lest I go off the deep end again. If we ever renew our vows I’d make one of his be “I promise that on my watch, you’ll never hear a news report that makes you want to euthanise myself before the big guns do it for you”.

We leave M&S and meet Moya from the school run in the mall. “I’m off to a Big Gay Wedding tonight, but I’m not really feeling it,” I inform her. (Poor woman, she only said hello, probably wasn’t wanting an update on my psychological state.) “Her eyes widen. “A big gay wedding you say? Well you had better start feeling it! What you need is either a big glass of fizz or else something short and strong. What’s it to be?” “Oh I can’t be having the fizz,” say I, all earnest. “Did you not see that article about what it does to your teeth? “Daily Mail fear-mongering!” she retorts. “But no, it was Zoe Williams, in The Guardian,” I correct her. (The Guardian would never make you feel bad for having a few scoops would they?) “Oh Williams SchWilliams, go and enjoy your party!!” God, I love Moya. She always looks fantastic and radiates positivity. I should hate her, but I can’t, she’s just too fabulous.

Home we go, and I get a grip of myself and find my lovely new frock I bought in a  Catalan boutique and put it on. (Any wonder I’m over-drawn?) I try out some make-up tips from my Benefit tin of delights, and when I undo my plaits from earlier there’s a delightful kink in the hair. (It stops half way down, but you know, feck it.) And down to The Empire we zoom to be greeted by our two favourite newly weds, and we set about creating havoc on the dance floor. The wedding band, The Moonshines seemed heaven sent to cheer me up. They nearly did Prince better than Prince, no mean feat I’m sure you’ll agree. It was quite simply, outrageously good fun and my mood lifted considerably, due, I think, to the transcendental power of dance. It would be unfair not to mention the incredible food from Posh Nosh, and the warmth and conviviality of the wedding party too. The last wedding to which we were invited didn’t end quite so well for me, as I came home via the Ulster Hospital, having dislocated my toe after falling on it, hard, while Irish Dancing with vigour to ‘Whiskey in the Jar’. (Almost worth the pain though, since it was tremendous fun too). So all digits intact we made it home, and with only the slightest of hangovers the next morning because sure I didn’t have time to drink, so busy was I tearing up the floor.

The morale is: get dancing people! It shook me out of my funk no end. (it has also made me consider hiring this band for my fortieth, which gives me almost two years to save up. Might have to drag my sorry ass back to work at this rate)



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