Friday, 9 June 2017

Down on my knees...

It was back to Swing Club for the husband and me on Wednesday evening. For any new readers, I should clarify that this is the Oxford Swing Dance Club where we are learning to Lindy Hop, and not an hour's fumbling in a dark room with Derek from the Bowls Club.

So for the last four weeks, we have been concentrating on the Charleston, the dance of choice for the Bright Young Things of the 1920's.  I did at one point wonder if there were any dances which were more appropriate for Faded Old Bags, but unless you include chair aerobics done in time to a Vera Lynn medley, I don't think that there is anything else on offer.  

So the husband and I danced with different partners for an hour (ladies rotate anti clockwise to ensure that everyone gets a go at dancing with a chap as some weeks there is a definite shortage of gentlemen), and then there was time for a short break.  This involves a cup of tea and a custard cream, far different to the champagne and cocaine which the BYT's would have had.  Mind you, some of that might have loosened the old legs up a little which would have been useful for the next part of the evening.

This is when the teachers take us through a popular dance of the time, usually danced alone, but in rows (think 5-6-7-8 by Steps and you'll get a good idea of what I mean).  This week, we did a manic Charleston routine, complete with black bottoms, Savoy kicks and grandma's knees (more on this later).  We waved our arms around (this is where the term Flappers come from - I think that Bingo Wings are probably a modern day version), and this middle aged bird flung herself into it with gusto, while the husband sat it out and watched.  He says it makes him happy to see me having fun, but I have a dreadful feeling that one day footage will materialise of this night.

So after an hour of this, I slipped off my dance shoes and we took ourselves off home.  It wasn't till I tried to get out of the car that I realised I had a problem.  My poor feet, never good at the best of times, might as well have fallen off as they were about as useful as a one legged man at an arse kicking party.  The husband and I limped into the house like a couple of octogenarians  and the husband claimed that finally, Swing Club had broken him.

Back to the grandma's knees then.  I now have these permanently after Wednesday night.

They go beautifully with my pensioners ankles...


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