Why do I have such a fucking big mouth? You know how you meet people when you're abroad? And you say, 'When you're in London, you'd be welcome to stay'? But you don't actually expect anyone to take you up on it. And what you envisage when they do, is actually of some trouble free stay involving the odd evening together, but basically you stay out of each other’s way. Well, this time it's got me into trouble.
Mr Beaten and I are quite uptight when it comes to our house. We can't help wincing when people slam the kitchen drawers (That's something they don't tell you about the new 'drawer culture'. Whereas once your plates were stationary on a shelf when at rest, now they're at constant risk of breakage as they get moved about every time you want something, and then shunted back again at alarming speed. Not sure about this kitchen revolution.); We can't bear people to put things in the sink, for fear of it chipping, and a washing up bowl is too ugly for Mr B; We have an organic obsession which means we never have enough to eat in the house; and I can't countenance using a worktop as a chopping board. So, when someone comes to stay, we whip ourselves into a frenzy, absorbing each other’s stress and giving each other migraines. It's a barrel of laughs.
When our disabled French twin friends asked if one of them could stay for 2 weeks (2 weeks!), the right-on side of me felt obliged to accommodate them - although my mother was away for a week, so I put our guest at her house for one of the weeks. Thank god. Of course, the stay had to be just after Mr B's mother announced that she would be descending on us. Because this woman has no concept of manners, she didn't think to let us know how long her stay would be. So she did, in fact, overlap with the French. I made Mr B. turf mummy from the spare room, on the grounds that the French was disabled and needed a bed and wasn't fit to sleep on the floor. So that was a pleasant moment of retribution. She really is an unbelievable cunt.
The French had omitted to tell me that they were coming ensemble - I was expecting the half twin package, but I got the full compliment for the first couple of days. This was actually OK. They're so small it seems wrong for only one of them to be in a double bed, and I feel like a presenter from Sesame Street, because for once I am taller than someone. I'm also less responsible when they have each other.
The brief harmony ceases when Twin One and Mother B. leave. Then I seem to be left with an interminable eight-day charge of caring for a schnorrer (I don't know if there is a suitable translation for this - think piss taker).
Twin Two goes to English classes every day, and is up and out early, but back by four and expecting entertainment. I begin to notice, because I'm horribly mean, that she has contributed nothing to the household. When we run out of cereal, rather than replacing, she manages to find Mr B's packed lunch bars to shnaffle. Stocks begin to run low, and I'm working and haven't had time to shop. One day I'm delighted to see the French one return from school with groceries, but these never make an appearance into the kitchen, and are obviously to take home as foreign delicacies.
I feel bombarded by passive aggression. Not only does Twin Two refuse to speak French in an effort to improve the English, but she also refuses to understand anything I say to her which she doesn't want to hear; she goes round being disabled, so you're caught between trying to treat her equally, whilst only doing so if it means being nice and accommodating, which I don't normally do for anyone else.
The week draws to a close, and reaching the final night, I can no longer face cooking for the guest (which I've done every night, apart from one in which I was out and fretted over what she would eat). My mother suggests a movie, La Vie En Rose, but schnorrer face wants to see an English language film. So mother buys tickets for Hairspray. Schnorrer doesn't offer to pay. With time to kill, we go for a Chinese. I pay. Schnorrer yet again doesn't offer, or say thank you! The upside is that mother is able to witness at first hand the schnorring. Schnorrer doesn't even like the film that much, and says that the language is basic, but given that I can't understand two thirds of what she says, a bit of basic wouldn't go amiss in my opinion. What’s the point of trying to talk about ethics if you can’t talk about sandwiches?
Anyway, it's over. My best friend asked to stay the other day. I told her to fuck off.
Saturday, 28 July 2007
Saturday, 21 July 2007
A is for Acting, B is for Bollocks
There is a certain kind of actor I would rather avoid. When confronted with a whole room full of them, my mind works fast to construct an escape plan. I start to wonder how bad it would be karmically if I announce I have to leave because of a death in the family. Having a huge capacity for guilt, I am unable to do this, and I try to think of brilliant white lies.
This Wednesday I had an appointment to do an 'audition workshop' for an international tour of third rate physical theatre. You know, pale imitations of what was ground breaking twenty years ago, and has since become part of established commercial theatre style. 'Come dressed for a physical theatre workshop' read the email. Duly, I arrive in my lovely red tracksuit. I am early. I am the first one there, and then I observe the instrument clad, one man band style worst nightmare sort of actors begin to arrive. These are the people who can't crack a smile, are unable to respond to my polite chat, and are totally up their own arses. They are all white. They all speak RP. They are desperately competitive. There is thirty minutes to kill before the workshop is due to begin. Having been stonewalled by the first two I speak to, I wonder how this time will pass. It's no surprise that people start to comptetively 'warm up'. This is people doing lots of stretches and horse noises with their mouths. Sometimes there is a bit of girly marshal arts movement going on, or abit of imaginary plate moving. Most important is the nonchalant blank face which everybody adopts in the exectution of this wanky series of moves.
I have nothing against dancers and athletes warming up their bodies. They do risk injury if they don't. But actors at an audition? Give me a break! This is just plain showing off. It makes me want to kill them. Or at the very least cuss their mums. So I wander about outside for a bit, then I sit on the floor in the hall, and I think my face is pretty plain. There is probably a huge sign above my head reading 'I think you're all cunts!' Maybe I should get one of those signs. This bodes really well for the next two hours passing in a fun way. It bodes brilliantly for me being imminently employed.
So the workshop begins, and the director makes a joke about how the wage will be paid into the actors' bank account, but there will be cash per diems which is basically 'beer money'. Hilarious! There were a lot of guffaws, particularly from a woman who had an amazingly determined face. I mean she really wanted this job bad. It's weird when people laugh and they don't smile. What follows are some rolly aroundy type exercises, then some improv games which are excrutiating, then some singing.
And now I know what is worse than competitive stretching. It's actors doing competitive singing. This is when they all try and sing the loudest whilst they're learning a song for the first time, and don't get it right because they're not listening. It's horrific. Then we have to take it in turns to sing this new song in pairs in a round. It's horrendous. Having had complete contempt for these people, I suddenly have enourmous empathy. What once were confident bellows become tremulous little squeeks. Words are forgotten, notes are out of the window, and still the maniac workshop leader keeps conducting them round and round, on and on, over and over, stretching the humiliation for all it's worth. And I feel warmth for these people, as despite the shameful performances, each one is cheered by all. My own performance is much like everyone elses. Horrid. I am the only one to laugh during it though, which I think makes me pretty cool.
At the end I don't wait to hear if they want to see me again. I don't feel that warmly towards them, and I've got things to do, like an audition for a job that I actually want, only now I'm way to tired and sweaty and my legs hurt and I just want to lie down. What is it about these physical theatre types which means they think that to be a good actor you must be able to walk with your knees bent a lot and have really strong thigh muscles?
This Wednesday I had an appointment to do an 'audition workshop' for an international tour of third rate physical theatre. You know, pale imitations of what was ground breaking twenty years ago, and has since become part of established commercial theatre style. 'Come dressed for a physical theatre workshop' read the email. Duly, I arrive in my lovely red tracksuit. I am early. I am the first one there, and then I observe the instrument clad, one man band style worst nightmare sort of actors begin to arrive. These are the people who can't crack a smile, are unable to respond to my polite chat, and are totally up their own arses. They are all white. They all speak RP. They are desperately competitive. There is thirty minutes to kill before the workshop is due to begin. Having been stonewalled by the first two I speak to, I wonder how this time will pass. It's no surprise that people start to comptetively 'warm up'. This is people doing lots of stretches and horse noises with their mouths. Sometimes there is a bit of girly marshal arts movement going on, or abit of imaginary plate moving. Most important is the nonchalant blank face which everybody adopts in the exectution of this wanky series of moves.
I have nothing against dancers and athletes warming up their bodies. They do risk injury if they don't. But actors at an audition? Give me a break! This is just plain showing off. It makes me want to kill them. Or at the very least cuss their mums. So I wander about outside for a bit, then I sit on the floor in the hall, and I think my face is pretty plain. There is probably a huge sign above my head reading 'I think you're all cunts!' Maybe I should get one of those signs. This bodes really well for the next two hours passing in a fun way. It bodes brilliantly for me being imminently employed.
So the workshop begins, and the director makes a joke about how the wage will be paid into the actors' bank account, but there will be cash per diems which is basically 'beer money'. Hilarious! There were a lot of guffaws, particularly from a woman who had an amazingly determined face. I mean she really wanted this job bad. It's weird when people laugh and they don't smile. What follows are some rolly aroundy type exercises, then some improv games which are excrutiating, then some singing.
And now I know what is worse than competitive stretching. It's actors doing competitive singing. This is when they all try and sing the loudest whilst they're learning a song for the first time, and don't get it right because they're not listening. It's horrific. Then we have to take it in turns to sing this new song in pairs in a round. It's horrendous. Having had complete contempt for these people, I suddenly have enourmous empathy. What once were confident bellows become tremulous little squeeks. Words are forgotten, notes are out of the window, and still the maniac workshop leader keeps conducting them round and round, on and on, over and over, stretching the humiliation for all it's worth. And I feel warmth for these people, as despite the shameful performances, each one is cheered by all. My own performance is much like everyone elses. Horrid. I am the only one to laugh during it though, which I think makes me pretty cool.
At the end I don't wait to hear if they want to see me again. I don't feel that warmly towards them, and I've got things to do, like an audition for a job that I actually want, only now I'm way to tired and sweaty and my legs hurt and I just want to lie down. What is it about these physical theatre types which means they think that to be a good actor you must be able to walk with your knees bent a lot and have really strong thigh muscles?
Thursday, 12 July 2007
Parental Guidance
This is what I've learnt. I am a terrible babysitter. I have no idea about boundaries; I am unable to be strict; I'm not even fun. I am a failure.
This is a tale of two cousins, or three or four. American cousin from New York is holidaying in London with her family (a girl aged 7, a boy of eleven, and a husband). In a moment of uncharacteristic generosity I have offered to look after the children for an evening. Entirely characteristic of my extended family, this involves several uptight phonecalls between myself and another cousin, Lobotomised of The Bishops Avenue, who starts every sentence with, 'Well we're very relaxed...', who has been looking after the children during that day, along with her own brood. She usually finishes all of these misleading sentences with the various limitations she must insist on - 'Well we're very relaxed but:
We can't drop them off near that cinema, it's too far away'
We have to get rid of them before the baby's bed time.'
We don't want you taking them on the tube at night.'
What started as an innocent suggestion becomes a mammoth undertaking of logistical insanity. I decide to remain 'very relaxed' in the negotiations, and eventually after spending most of the day on the phone, agree to meet the kids at their hotel in Euston.
The moment Lobotomised of Bishop's Avenue's husband is out of sight, we get straight on the tube to Marine Ices, where I make the mistake of allowing them to order whatever they like. American children know how to order - on the side, on top, extra whipped cream etc. Actually, this part of the evening is looking good. Dora doesn't eat her ice cream, but polishes off most of my spaghetti. Tom, who is already getting a belly, consumes his triple special sundae extraordinarily fast. I'm sure too fast to taste the different flavours, and only so that he can get a cold sensation in his mouth. Unfortunately, this meal only takes us to 8 o clock, and I'm wondering how on earth we will fill the next 4 hours. I don't understand any of their jokes, nor they mine, and the prospect of an evening in their sugared up company looms unpleasantly. I decide, therefore, that we will take the bus back to the hotel - see the sights of Camden Town. What a mistake. Dora pretends to be homeless at the bus stop, sitting on the ground and begging for change, whilst Tom begs me for gum. For some reason I relent, on the condition that it is carcinogenic sugar free. They return with a pack of Hubba Bubba of a colour and flavour that makes me feel old.
Why do children always want stuff? Their appetites are incredible. I suppose they are not in a position to buy anything themselves, whereas grown ups can spend their money on whatever they like, whenever they choose. So they just keep asking because they don't know when they'll get their next consumer fix.
The bus seems to take an age to come, and when it does, the two hyper monkeys cause mayhem running up and down the bus. I clearly look like a very bad mother.
Back at the hotel, Dora paints my nail a shade of Barbie pink. There are murmurings about ordering room service because 'mommy said we could.' Of course, the reality is that they aren't hungry. But they won't admit that.
I manage to stall them by getting the pay per view movie up. We select 'My Super Ex Girlfriend' on the basis that it isn't a baby film, and the sex and violence is probably mild enough for the parents not to mind. I pretend not to notice when there is a superhero sex scene involving the bed shunting through into the next apartment.
It's all going OK. They seem to have forgotten about the room service. They seem involved in the movie. I can relax. Then the screen goes dark, and we can't seem to get the picture back. Tom seizes the remote and in an effort to get the film back on, keys in the room number. Only it's now on the erotic channel and all we can see is a leather thonged bum wiggling, and occupying the entire screen. I panic. This will appear on the bill for the room. I'm doomed. On the phone to the front desk I'm screaming 'We won't pay for the porn. Please don't charge for the porn!'. They say they'll send someone up to sort out the TV. In the meantime Tom has dialled room service, put the receiver to my ear and pointed to Chicken Noodle Soup on the menu. What can I do? I relent.
The kids are getting twitchy. The man hasn't come to fix the telly. The chicken soup is yet to arrive. Tom does the only logical thing he can. By the kettle is a box full of zero calorie fruit flavoured powders for people who don't like water to use to make it palatable (fat Americans). He opens a mini Perrier, and just as I'm saying 'I don't think you should do that' he tips a sachet in. The result is that pink soda shoots into the air, covering Tom, the ironing board, the carpet. Trying to rectify things he covers the neck of the bottle with his mouth, only this just focuses the intensity of the jet from his mouth. He's very sorry. We try our best to clean up, and the chicken soup arrives, which nobody wants of course.
I can't bear to see the waste, and guilt trip them into eating it, which makes me feel awful, so I tell them to stop, only the boy won't and keeps slurping it down, which makes me feel worse, and then he has to lie down with a headache.
The man comes and fixes the TV, and we resume watching, peacefully. By the time the parents arrive home, all is calm. Tom is in bed with a flannel on his head. Dora and I are reading horoscopes. We decide we'll keep quiet about the soda incident, and I hope that the porn makes no appearance on the bill. I go home wondering what the trick is to childcare, and why are kids so weird?
This is a tale of two cousins, or three or four. American cousin from New York is holidaying in London with her family (a girl aged 7, a boy of eleven, and a husband). In a moment of uncharacteristic generosity I have offered to look after the children for an evening. Entirely characteristic of my extended family, this involves several uptight phonecalls between myself and another cousin, Lobotomised of The Bishops Avenue, who starts every sentence with, 'Well we're very relaxed...', who has been looking after the children during that day, along with her own brood. She usually finishes all of these misleading sentences with the various limitations she must insist on - 'Well we're very relaxed but:
We can't drop them off near that cinema, it's too far away'
We have to get rid of them before the baby's bed time.'
We don't want you taking them on the tube at night.'
What started as an innocent suggestion becomes a mammoth undertaking of logistical insanity. I decide to remain 'very relaxed' in the negotiations, and eventually after spending most of the day on the phone, agree to meet the kids at their hotel in Euston.
The moment Lobotomised of Bishop's Avenue's husband is out of sight, we get straight on the tube to Marine Ices, where I make the mistake of allowing them to order whatever they like. American children know how to order - on the side, on top, extra whipped cream etc. Actually, this part of the evening is looking good. Dora doesn't eat her ice cream, but polishes off most of my spaghetti. Tom, who is already getting a belly, consumes his triple special sundae extraordinarily fast. I'm sure too fast to taste the different flavours, and only so that he can get a cold sensation in his mouth. Unfortunately, this meal only takes us to 8 o clock, and I'm wondering how on earth we will fill the next 4 hours. I don't understand any of their jokes, nor they mine, and the prospect of an evening in their sugared up company looms unpleasantly. I decide, therefore, that we will take the bus back to the hotel - see the sights of Camden Town. What a mistake. Dora pretends to be homeless at the bus stop, sitting on the ground and begging for change, whilst Tom begs me for gum. For some reason I relent, on the condition that it is carcinogenic sugar free. They return with a pack of Hubba Bubba of a colour and flavour that makes me feel old.
Why do children always want stuff? Their appetites are incredible. I suppose they are not in a position to buy anything themselves, whereas grown ups can spend their money on whatever they like, whenever they choose. So they just keep asking because they don't know when they'll get their next consumer fix.
The bus seems to take an age to come, and when it does, the two hyper monkeys cause mayhem running up and down the bus. I clearly look like a very bad mother.
Back at the hotel, Dora paints my nail a shade of Barbie pink. There are murmurings about ordering room service because 'mommy said we could.' Of course, the reality is that they aren't hungry. But they won't admit that.
I manage to stall them by getting the pay per view movie up. We select 'My Super Ex Girlfriend' on the basis that it isn't a baby film, and the sex and violence is probably mild enough for the parents not to mind. I pretend not to notice when there is a superhero sex scene involving the bed shunting through into the next apartment.
It's all going OK. They seem to have forgotten about the room service. They seem involved in the movie. I can relax. Then the screen goes dark, and we can't seem to get the picture back. Tom seizes the remote and in an effort to get the film back on, keys in the room number. Only it's now on the erotic channel and all we can see is a leather thonged bum wiggling, and occupying the entire screen. I panic. This will appear on the bill for the room. I'm doomed. On the phone to the front desk I'm screaming 'We won't pay for the porn. Please don't charge for the porn!'. They say they'll send someone up to sort out the TV. In the meantime Tom has dialled room service, put the receiver to my ear and pointed to Chicken Noodle Soup on the menu. What can I do? I relent.
The kids are getting twitchy. The man hasn't come to fix the telly. The chicken soup is yet to arrive. Tom does the only logical thing he can. By the kettle is a box full of zero calorie fruit flavoured powders for people who don't like water to use to make it palatable (fat Americans). He opens a mini Perrier, and just as I'm saying 'I don't think you should do that' he tips a sachet in. The result is that pink soda shoots into the air, covering Tom, the ironing board, the carpet. Trying to rectify things he covers the neck of the bottle with his mouth, only this just focuses the intensity of the jet from his mouth. He's very sorry. We try our best to clean up, and the chicken soup arrives, which nobody wants of course.
I can't bear to see the waste, and guilt trip them into eating it, which makes me feel awful, so I tell them to stop, only the boy won't and keeps slurping it down, which makes me feel worse, and then he has to lie down with a headache.
The man comes and fixes the TV, and we resume watching, peacefully. By the time the parents arrive home, all is calm. Tom is in bed with a flannel on his head. Dora and I are reading horoscopes. We decide we'll keep quiet about the soda incident, and I hope that the porn makes no appearance on the bill. I go home wondering what the trick is to childcare, and why are kids so weird?
Wednesday, 11 July 2007
Politics of The Dance
Realising that my physical activities are limited to climbing the escalators in the tube and one pilates class a week, I decided to join my friend Joey at a Lindy Hop class.
I've always been a bit funny about partner dance classes. There is something a little bit sad about them. You feel like it's a place for social misfits gather to find a life. My snobbishness about this is totally hypocritical - I am a social misfit, and my life rarely makes an appearance. But, remembering sweaty palms and gum chewers in salsa classes, and people who count in your ear in ballroom dancing, I'm dubious about the whole idea. However, having a camp jitterbug enthusiast on your arm can only improve the experience. He's been sending me Utube jitterbug links ever since to help me feel 'fabulous' at the class.
How wierd is this? The class takes place at a synagogue. I didn't know that shuls were like church halls - you know, open to all sorts for evening activities. Does this mean there's a tango class at the local mosque? Anyway, there's no shortage of dancing partners aged from 17 to 90. It's funny. I have this gravitational pull attracting men over the age of 70 towards me. I always have, and my mum's the same. At first it seems harmless enough. I'm dancing with a charming octogenarian called Bill. He's telling me I'm a wonderful dancer and whirling me round. Then he's throwing me in the air which is quite exciting. Then he's saying 'I want to do acrobatics with you,' and I don't think he means good clean dancing fun with your clothes on. I laugh it off, and report back to Joey who thinks it's hilarious.
Next I'm dancing with a handsome young man who can dance (!)(gay) who is wearing a t-shirt with HACKNEY on it. It's all going rather well. I'm not moving really stiffly, nor am I wondering where to look or what facial expression to have. I do scream in his ear at one point, which he's not impressed with, but I did think I was going to fall over what with all the spinning. We dance to several tunes in a row, and then we're wondering off the dance floor towards my friends. It's chat chat chat, and then he says he's going home. We say bye, and carry on chatting and dancing. Half an hour has passed and I need a drink. Walking towards the water cooler I spot HACKNEY leaning against a wall hanging out on the other side of the room, and it dawns on me that HACKNEY thinks we're sad people and felt it was necessary to lie to us. He said he was going home in order to escape our hideous presences! I scuttle past pretending not to see him and report back to Joey who finds it hilarious. I am really rather gutted. How is this possible? Is it because I'm a rubbish dancer? Is it because he thought I was in love with him and was planning our wedding? Is it because he thought Joey fancied him and was planning their wedding? Now I'm wondering how I can go back to Lindy Hop, and I'm wondering whether there's another class somewhere else.
There is something about the politics of partner dancing. You see, after the class, there is 'free' dancing. This means that the women sit on chairs round the edges and the men come and ask them to dance. This has been happening for hundreds of years. Part of me is glad. I don't have to risk rejection and humiliation for the sake of practicing steps. I just have to sit and wait for someone to ask. But then, you can only choose to dance with those who ask you. And, some of these are horrible. One man has repeatedly made the same joke week after week. What happens is this: He comes up to you when you're chatting to a girlfriend. He puts out his hand to ask you on to the floor. He pulls you up, and at the same time sits himself down in your seat and turns to talk to your friend. I told him that you can't make the same joke twice. It isn't funny. Still I dance with him. Fuck knows why. For him, it's like a competition. He tries to trick you into dancing 'wrong'. You know, he'll set up a step on 1,2, and 3, and you'll join in - only he stops on the 4, and leaves you doing it on your own. After my last dance with him I sat down, and said 'cunt' to the girl next to me, who pretended not to hear.
I saw Bill at another class who got very excited that I was there, and told me I was a wonderful dancer (again) and that he wanted to do acrobatics with me (again). Only this time, as I was turning to leave, he said to me
'Listen, I really want to see Dirty Dancing at the theatre.'
Oh shit, I think. How am I going to get out of this?
'But it's too expensive'
Phew.
'So I thought, what about watching it on DVD?'
Oh no! I can't go to his house!
'Look, I got 2 for £5!'
What is he on about?
'Have one.'
Now that is wierd but not as awful as I thought it would be. But he has started leaving messages on my ansaphone asking when I'm going again. So now I'm avoiding HACKNEY and Bill.
I was supposed to go tonight, but Joey wasn't going, and I really can't risk any encounters on my own.
I've always been a bit funny about partner dance classes. There is something a little bit sad about them. You feel like it's a place for social misfits gather to find a life. My snobbishness about this is totally hypocritical - I am a social misfit, and my life rarely makes an appearance. But, remembering sweaty palms and gum chewers in salsa classes, and people who count in your ear in ballroom dancing, I'm dubious about the whole idea. However, having a camp jitterbug enthusiast on your arm can only improve the experience. He's been sending me Utube jitterbug links ever since to help me feel 'fabulous' at the class.
How wierd is this? The class takes place at a synagogue. I didn't know that shuls were like church halls - you know, open to all sorts for evening activities. Does this mean there's a tango class at the local mosque? Anyway, there's no shortage of dancing partners aged from 17 to 90. It's funny. I have this gravitational pull attracting men over the age of 70 towards me. I always have, and my mum's the same. At first it seems harmless enough. I'm dancing with a charming octogenarian called Bill. He's telling me I'm a wonderful dancer and whirling me round. Then he's throwing me in the air which is quite exciting. Then he's saying 'I want to do acrobatics with you,' and I don't think he means good clean dancing fun with your clothes on. I laugh it off, and report back to Joey who thinks it's hilarious.
Next I'm dancing with a handsome young man who can dance (!)(gay) who is wearing a t-shirt with HACKNEY on it. It's all going rather well. I'm not moving really stiffly, nor am I wondering where to look or what facial expression to have. I do scream in his ear at one point, which he's not impressed with, but I did think I was going to fall over what with all the spinning. We dance to several tunes in a row, and then we're wondering off the dance floor towards my friends. It's chat chat chat, and then he says he's going home. We say bye, and carry on chatting and dancing. Half an hour has passed and I need a drink. Walking towards the water cooler I spot HACKNEY leaning against a wall hanging out on the other side of the room, and it dawns on me that HACKNEY thinks we're sad people and felt it was necessary to lie to us. He said he was going home in order to escape our hideous presences! I scuttle past pretending not to see him and report back to Joey who finds it hilarious. I am really rather gutted. How is this possible? Is it because I'm a rubbish dancer? Is it because he thought I was in love with him and was planning our wedding? Is it because he thought Joey fancied him and was planning their wedding? Now I'm wondering how I can go back to Lindy Hop, and I'm wondering whether there's another class somewhere else.
There is something about the politics of partner dancing. You see, after the class, there is 'free' dancing. This means that the women sit on chairs round the edges and the men come and ask them to dance. This has been happening for hundreds of years. Part of me is glad. I don't have to risk rejection and humiliation for the sake of practicing steps. I just have to sit and wait for someone to ask. But then, you can only choose to dance with those who ask you. And, some of these are horrible. One man has repeatedly made the same joke week after week. What happens is this: He comes up to you when you're chatting to a girlfriend. He puts out his hand to ask you on to the floor. He pulls you up, and at the same time sits himself down in your seat and turns to talk to your friend. I told him that you can't make the same joke twice. It isn't funny. Still I dance with him. Fuck knows why. For him, it's like a competition. He tries to trick you into dancing 'wrong'. You know, he'll set up a step on 1,2, and 3, and you'll join in - only he stops on the 4, and leaves you doing it on your own. After my last dance with him I sat down, and said 'cunt' to the girl next to me, who pretended not to hear.
I saw Bill at another class who got very excited that I was there, and told me I was a wonderful dancer (again) and that he wanted to do acrobatics with me (again). Only this time, as I was turning to leave, he said to me
'Listen, I really want to see Dirty Dancing at the theatre.'
Oh shit, I think. How am I going to get out of this?
'But it's too expensive'
Phew.
'So I thought, what about watching it on DVD?'
Oh no! I can't go to his house!
'Look, I got 2 for £5!'
What is he on about?
'Have one.'
Now that is wierd but not as awful as I thought it would be. But he has started leaving messages on my ansaphone asking when I'm going again. So now I'm avoiding HACKNEY and Bill.
I was supposed to go tonight, but Joey wasn't going, and I really can't risk any encounters on my own.
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