Last night I went to a party to celebrate my cousin's recent marriage. Because, quite frankly, we haven't had enough wedding-related celebration in the last twelve months.
Anyway, Steve has married Meg. They got married in October, on Long Beach Island in the States. This wasn't some extravagance, as that's where Meg is from (the States, not Long Beach Island). And as our funds weren't going to stretch to a second transatlantic trip this year, we waited for the UK leg of the party instead. So last night we had a barn dance and hog roast. I managed to participate in 50% of those activities. Care to hazard a guess?
It's not that I'm a particularly bad dancer. That would be a bit like stating I'm a bad skydiver. It's not something I do often enough to be able to judge. But the problem is, when surrounded by happy dancing partygoers, I'll typically stay welded to my seat and nervously avoid eye-contact. I blame my dad. He once told me that he considered dancing a "criminal waste of drinking time". Once you've got that in your head, it's difficult to overcome.
Which is a bit of a shame, I suppose. I've never been to a barn dance before; this one seemed to have all the traditional English dances, accompanied by a folk band and with a leader calling out the dance moves. Before you ask, there were no cable-knit jumpers involved. It actually looked like fun - people of all ages were up there and you could actually get, well, quite close to your dancing partner. It certainly harked back to a more innocent age, although I'm sure there are probably some deep anthropological meanings to more than a few of the dance moves.
I was delighted to learn from Meg that she'd wanted to have such a quintessentially traditional English evening.
Smashing. Or awesome. Depending on your viewpoint.