Waltzing wallflowers

 

Waltzing wallflowers

When I was eleven years old, I was one of the shortest, smallest girls at my grammar school.

                Eleven years old, hair as straight as a yard of pump water.

Eighteen years old

 By the time I left, I was among the tallest.

My height meant that I had to learn the male part in ballroom dancing, which played havoc when I actually had to dance the female part. Luckily, by the time I started going to village hops and town dances most of the dancing was solo. If a boy plucked up the courage to ask a girl to dance, there was little physical contact – that is to say, physical contact was not compulsory as it would have been in more formal dancing.

When we reached the dizzy heights of the fifth form, at the age of sixteen, and considered ourselves mature and adult, our school arranged a joint dance with the boys’ grammar school. Oh, the delirious excitement of it all.

Some of my contemporaries already had boyfriends at the school so they were paired with them. The rest of us losers were allocated partners, sight unseen.

It was nerve-wracking waiting to discover one’s escort for the evening and, in the event, mutually disappointing, I’m sure. We girls gazed enviously at our superior and rather smug sisters who had come with partners of their own choosing, tried to be polite, and longed for the evening to end.

I was relieved that my partner was taller than me. Did the teachers take height into account when allocating partners or were we put together alphabetically or just randomly? I can’t imagine they had time or inclination to find pair like-minded companions. Whatever the case, the dancing was deplorable, on both our parts. He managed to keep his feet off mine, for which I was thankful, and while he wasn’t actually counting the beats out loud, his movements were somewhat robotic. Poor boy!

I don’t think the boys had received much dancing instruction. Most of the masters had returned from the war a decade or two earlier with a multitude of experiences, and teaching spotty adolescents to dance may not have been a task they desperately desired. At least the boys knew they were meant to be ‘leading.’ I knew I was supposed to be ‘following’ but I was so accustomed to taking the lead that I was fighting my partner for the privilege.

At some point there were refreshments, but time has mercifully overridden all other memories of the evening. Certainly, it was not the stepping-off point to a beautiful friendship. Later, I came to know many of the boys from the boys' grammar school, but so far as I know, they did not attend that dance. They were more interested in playing rugby or riding racing bicycles or motorbikes.

When, eventually, my friends and I started going to dances at the local Palais, the anticipation was always far better than the reality. For some, it may have been the route to meeting their life-long partner, but it was not to be so for me, or any of my close contemporaries.

I was always among the anxious wallflowers lining the walls until the final, desperate, traditional ‘Last Waltz’ began when every lout youth in the room homed in on the unloved to claim a dance. Being clammily clasped by an inebriated boy who was keen to boast that he had a girl-friend, however tenuous the relationship might be, was not a dream ending to a night out. Nevertheless, it was better to dance the Last Waltz with anyone at all rather than remain on the touch line like an abandoned shipwreck. In any case, it would have been rude to refuse the offer of a dance – we were all very polite in our awkward teenage ways.

I’ve always enjoyed dancing. When the mood takes me, I dance in the kitchen on my own, or with a dog or rather surprised cat, or occasionally a small child. 

Sleeping dogs

 

Sleeping dogs

        

                                                Puppy Jenna

Everyone knows you should let sleeping dogs lie (lie undisturbed, that is, not tell untruths!)

                                            Old lady Cariadd 

However, only extremely young puppies and particularly old dogs sleep the absorbed sleep of the entirely relaxed. In the intervening years they sleep with one ear and one eye open.

If they haven’t reacted to a human entering the kitchen they may continue to give every appearance of slumbering, but the slightest food-related noise will alert them. The chink of the butter dish, the opening of the fridge door, the clink of a food bowl will awaken them, and they may or may not stir themselves to investigate.

However, a human saying, ‘Whoops!’ will have them instantly in attendance. They know that food has fallen like manna from heaven and it is their task to tidy it away, which they accomplish swiftly and  efficiently.

I wish I could spring into action from a standing sleeping start as they do . . . or ever!                                            

Foxtrot

 

Foxtrot

                                        Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The Foxtrot is a ballroom dance originally danced to ragtime. It was first danced in public in 1914 and was named after its originator, the vaudeville entertainer, Harry Fox.  From its inception until the 1940s it was the most popular fast dance, combining quick short steps with longer flowing ones.  Most of the records produced in this period were foxtrots.

In the early 1950s rock and roll made its debut. Record companies were unsure which style of dancing would best fit the music, but Decca Records decided to classify their rock and roll discs as foxtrots. Thus, Bill Haley’s ‘Rock Around the Clock’ was called a foxtrot. It is estimated that the recording sold more than twenty-five million copies of the song to become the biggest selling foxtrot of all time.  

Have you seen a fox trot
Neatly through the night,
Keeping out of eyeshot
And the farm dog’s bite?

Red coat and sharp black nose,
Bushy tail held straight,
Fleet of foot on soft toes,
Dinner can’t be late.

Now the henhouse beckons,
All the hens asleep,
Reynard swiftly reckons -
How many will he reap?

One, two, three or seven?
Hungry cubs await
Chicken supper heaven!
Then he hears, too late

The farmer’s heavy footfalls,
The roaring of his gun,
The beating of his heart stalls -
Reynard’s life is done.

JC

Dancing

 

Dancing

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

I was educated solely with girls from the age of six to eighteen.

This had a lasting impact on my ability to interact with the opposite sex. I had an older brother, who was no help to me whatsoever, and a glamorous sister, fifteen years my senior. She had a stream of attractive boyfriends, and I used to watch wide-eyed as she prepared for an evening out, knowing I would never be able to achieve her level of sophistication. I overcame these obstacles to some extent, of course, but was always shy and never managed the easy relationships with young men that other girls seemed to enjoy.

Anyway, at the age of eleven, I duly went off to the next stage of my state education. Dancing was part of the physical education curriculum. We learnt country dancing -Strip the Willow and Sir Roger de Coverley, Old Tyme dancing - the Veleta and the Military Two-Step, and ballroom dancing - the Cha Cha Cha and the Foxtrot. We galloped sweatily round the gymnasium, enthusiastic but not completely enamoured of the exercise.

All the staff members were women. (The appointment of two male teachers a few years later caused a great buzz of unnecessary enthusiasm.) One of our PE teachers was a particularly good ballroom dancer, but I’m afraid we callow lasses didn’t appreciate her skill as we watched her spinning gracefully round the assembly hall with her female partner. Our comments were uncharitable at best. We had little interest in anything other than ourselves.

When we were about fourteen, the school organised a ‘formal’ dance and we all dressed in our finest. My mother was a talented needlewoman and made me a very pretty deep pink Empire line dress. Our pleasures in those days were simple, and one of the highlights of the evening was commenting on what everyone else was wearing. After all, we were accustomed to seeing each other only in our hideous green school uniform. We danced together decorously, the bolder girls inviting teachers to partner them.

I wonder what those women made of the event. Many of them, though they seemed ancient to us, were probably in their late thirties or early forties and had possibly lost fiancés in the war. It must have felt bittersweet to them as they twirled around the parquet flooring in the embrace of adolescent girls, some of whom, in the time-honoured manner of single sex schools, had crushes on them.

Looking back, I applaud the magnanimity of those adults in volunteering to supervise us and accept invitations to dance, or maybe they had been coerced into it by our less than amiable headmistress.

Mating Dance

 

Mating Dance

Peacock spider (Maratus volans)

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

A courtship display or mating dance is a ritual set of movements designed to attract the attention of a potential mate. If successful, the couple will copulate and eventually young will be born or hatched.

Ritual displays are often colourful and extravagant. The Peacock spider (Maratus volans) is a jumping spider native to Australia. Brightly coloured, he also claps his third pair of legs and dances from side to side as he approaches the female. However, if she is not sufficiently impressed by his display, she may eat him!

About sixteen years ago, we were privileged to watch an incredibly special ritual never before captured on camera. The conservatory was empty of everything except a pair of step-ladders. As we attempted to fold the ladders to put them away, we noticed that they were inextricably tangled. On closer inspection, we realised we had chanced upon the mating dance of the step-ladders.

The ladder on the right in the above photograph, is a five-step ladder, a female. The male, on the left, has seven steps and is taller and broader than his mate. Note the black straps – a secondary sexual characteristic of the male.

The following photograph gives a closer view of the male’s technique. See how closely he embraces his mate. Can you see the female’s black feet?

We were delighted to be privy to this unique event and anxiously awaited baby ladders in the near future. We hoped they would be six-steppers, but would have been content simply to see sturdy baby ladders.

 View from another angle, female on left, male on right

Sadly, it was not to be, and a repeat mating was never attempted, for the ladders were separated and stored, never to meet again.

Tally Ho!

 

Tally Ho!

Point-to-point (steeplechase) 1870s

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Many years ago, Barry and I went to a point-to-point on Salisbury Plain. It was a business meeting disguised as a ‘jolly’ – a pleasant day out with refreshments provided. There was a point-to-point, ostensibly to entertain the attendees, in particular the visiting dignitaries of the company. As the company was American, a number of the guests were American.

It was a sea of green and brown. Men in hearty tweeds, some even in plus fours, sipped whisky. Tweed is a robust woollen fabric, prized as suitable clothing for outdoor pursuits, like hunting and shooting, because it is hard-wearing and moisture-resistant, and proof against thorns and thistles. However, the company was indoors, sheltered from the elements, so the outdoor clothing seemed a little de trop.

Women with strong yellow teeth, were drinking gin. They were dressed a little less formulaically, though still in earth tones, with sturdy legs, and feet shod in well-worn leather.As with all gatherings of this nature, there was a great deal of noise. It might be described as braying and there was a lot of guffawing. Everyone was talking, no-one was listening.

Most of the Brits were entirely relaxed, strapping, healthy, well-built people in an ocean of lovat green, thoroughly enjoying their day out, happy to see and be seen and chortling merrily, displaying their very British teeth.

Into this scrum stepped a dainty, whip-thin woman, clearly well out of her comfort zone, but smiling nervously as she accompanied her husband into the noisy throng. She was extremely slender, tanned, stylishly dressed, and beautifully groomed. She was polished and honed and ironed to the ends of her immaculate nails, a delicate hot-house flower in a garden of vigorous vegetables. The most fascinating thing about her was her teeth. They were such a contrast to the dentition of all around her. They were unnaturally, glaringly white, sunbeams glancing off them and dazzling all around her. They were obviously well-maintained, expensive teeth and no doubt, in her natural environment, would have been unremarkable in a room of similarly blinding gnashers.

I was reminded of the episode of ‘Friends’ in which Ross, played by David Schwimmer, whitened his teeth. They shone in the dark!

I don’t suppose the lady ever attended another point-to-point, but she was to be commended for making the effort. No doubt, she and her husband were invited to a Buckingham Palace reception later and that would have been more acceptable to her, though the Royal teeth are similarly strong, yellow, and large.

The Bedale Hunt, early 2000s
Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The point-to-point continued, but only those participating took any notice of proceedings. In the distance, the local hunt (Royal Artillery Hunt) streamed across the fields, resplendent in scarlet. Of course, they were not pursuing foxes, as that had been outlawed, but the spectacle was still colourful and eye-catching.

Eventually, the day drew to a close, all the networking finished, and it was time to return home.

Exercises

 

Exercises

 

Just a few exercises for the little grey cells.

Q: They can be made, laid down, bent and broken, although it’s difficult to touch them. What are they?

Q: The maker does not need it. The buyer does not use it. The user uses it without knowing. What is it?

 Q: I have neither sister nor brother, but my mother’s daughter is the man’s mother. Who am I?

Q: An aircraft carrying 60 Mexican lawyers to a convention in Rio crashed on the border between Colombia, Venezuela and Brazil. Under International Law, where should the survivors be buried?