Shell Shock

 

Shell Shock

 Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Clare loved shells and had collected them all her life. They were displayed informally in baskets and bowls throughout her house and garden, and were beautiful reminders of happy days at the beach and fabulous holidays in exotic locations.

Her favourite shells had pride of place in her bedroom, delicate pastel greens and pinks, echoing the colours of her soft furnishings. Her room was comfortable, relaxing, tastefully decorated. Gerry was abroad so often on business that she felt the room belonged more to her than to them.

When he was at home, he worked excessively long hours and frequently stayed in the guest bedroom or even at his club so that she shouldn’t be disturbed. He was very considerate.

Today, he had left a cryptic message on her phone – ‘A word in your shell-like.’ He had always said her ears were like delicate shells. She smiled. She called to ask him what he meant, and he replied that perhaps she should consult her shells.

She was intrigued. She had dabbled in Tarot and astrology but had never considered reading shells. Was there even such a practice? Was he teasing her? Maybe he had hidden a precious trinket in one of her displays. He made sweet little gestures like that. She sighed, wondering, as she so often did, why she took him for granted. He tried hard to please her, but she missed the excitement and energy of their early days together.

She wandered about the house, trickling shells through her fingers, but could see nothing unusual.

Finally, in her bedroom, she studied what she regarded as her special collection, the shells she had found in the first years of her marriage, some even from their honeymoon. She touched each one lightly, then noticed a stranger, one that didn’t belong. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It was just a small conch, a most attractive one, to be sure, but nothing remarkable. Why had he given it to her?

As she examined it more closely, she saw the minute spy camera tucked inside and her stomach turned over at the memory of what it would have recorded. Trembling, she replaced it among the others. What she would not give now to be able to turn back the clock and become again the loving, faithful wife she once had been. Too late!

He filed for divorce, of course, and naturally she did not contest it.

Outside of a dog . . .

 

Outside of a dog . . .

                              . . . a book is man’s best friend.

Our eldest grandson and his little family visited us on Sunday, unexpectedly. It was delightful to see them all. 

Callum's elder daughter, Melia, is almost two and a half years old, and a very competent little girl. In the morning before they set off from home, she announced that she wasn’t going to wear nappies any longer. Obviously, she judged that the time was right, though it wasn’t the most opportune time to relinquish them, but she didn’t go to the loo very many times while she was with us.

Her baby sister, Hailey, is four months old and she was happy to gaze around at her surroundings, and coo.

Melia is very used to dogs and our dogs were happy to have visitors, particularly those at nose level with sticky fingers. They had to be segregated periodically when food was being consumed.

Books and toys, drawing pads and colouring pencils were brought out to entertain. 

Gilbert, being a Literary Labrador showed an interest, using the books as a pillow after our visitors departed.

                             Our cats, too, have shown Literary Leanings.

      

                                                  The late Winston Ocicat enjoyed blogging.

                                                 He also enjoyed reading his Kindle in bed.

                                           Pats the Abyssinian enjoyed books from kittenhood.

                                                 Herschel Ocicat guards the bookshelves.

          Jellicoe Ocicat is studying ornithology amongst other subjects.

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend.

Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.

Groucho Marx

 

Kraftwerk

 

Kraftwerk

I have to thank Lyssa Medana for bringing this clip to my attention. Kraftwerk is not a group one would associate with something as frivolous as the Hokey Cokey and yet, here they are, performing with Bill Bailey. 

Incidentally, Bill Bailey is an honorary member of  the Society of Crematorium Organists.

The Hokey Cokey

 

 The Hokey Cokey

Continuing the dancing theme, we come to the Hokey Cokey. According to where you live in the world, it is called the Hokey Pokey (Australia, USA), the boogie woogie (Denmark), Rucki-Zucki (Germany) and in Mexico, it is known as the Hockey Pockey.

I don’t know if anyone ever sings and plays it now. It used to be a staple at children’s school parties, but today’s youngsters are far too sophisticated for such nonsense. It’s believed to have folk dance origins from 1826, according to Wikipedia. I was astonished to discover that it had become a hit in the record charts, not once, but twice in the 1980s. That’s forty years after it first became popular with the public.

You put your left foot in,
Your left foot out,
In, out, in, out,
Shake it all about.
You do the hokey cokey and you turn around,
That’s what it’s all about.
Oh, hokey cokey cokey,
Oh, hokey cokey cokey,
Oh, hokey cokey cokey,
Knees bend, arms stretch,
Rah, rah, rah!

The Washington Post Style Invitational, or simply Invite, now defunct as a column since 2022, was an established weekly humour competition. It received the following, winning entry for something written in the style of Shakespeare. It’s not easy to sing, but do try!

 

O proud left foot, that ventures quick within
Then soon upon a backward journey lithe.
Anon, once more the gesture, then begin:
Command sinistral pedestal to writhe,
Commence thou then the fervid Hokey-Poke,
A mad gyration, hips in wanton swirl,
To spin! A wilde release from heaven’s yoke.
Blessed dervish! Surely canst go, girl,
The Hoke, the poke – banish now thy doubt,
Verily, I say, ‘tis what it’s all about.

The Style Invitational or SI was renamed ‘The Invitational’ and found a new home on Substack. It can be found at The Gene Pool, GeneWeingarten.substack.com.

There is also a Facebook group, called Style Invitational Devotees. Anyone joining has their name anagrammed by members.

This YouTube video shows the Hokey Cokey being danced by some young children. All human character is there – the bold, the shy, the leader, the follower, the one who holds back, the one who’d rather follow his own path . .

 A short story

  

                                     Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

‘Shall we dance?’ he asked and together they fell into step, dipping, stretching, and gliding across the burnished boards. The music engulfed them as they pirouetted and twirled, she under his arm, and then he under hers. They saw no-one else and felt nothing other than the rhythm and the blood pounding in their veins.

He drew her closer, his arms encircling her, and her heart beat faster as their bodies touched, his chest against hers, his thighs pressed to hers, one hand on the small of her back, guiding her, just so, just so. She wanted to dance forever, for the moment never to end.

She gazed into his eyes, saw her passion reflected there. Her lips parted, he bent his head to hers, and the music swelled as it reached a climax.

The little girl shut the lid of the music box and went to have her tea.

A loveliness of ladybirds

 

A loveliness of ladybirds

Ladybird windmill

Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,

Your house is on fire and your children are gone,

All except one and her name is Ann,

And she has crept under the frying pan.

Seven-spot ladybird (Coccinella septempunctata)

Look carefully and you can see a reflection of our house in the beetle's shiny wing case - apex of roof at middle spot!

Every summer, ladybirds (Coccinellidae) from Europe visit UK shores, to swell resident populations. This year there has been a veritable invasion. The last significant incursion was in 2009, when hot weather caused a glut in the numbers of aphids and a consequent rise in the ladybird populace.

However, the present invasion is akin to the astonishing 1976 influx, and even caused a pause in the cricket. ‘Ladybirds stopped play’ is not something we’re accustomed to hearing. The cricketers on Day One of the Third Test match between India and England at Lord’s cricket ground, were not impressed when a loveliness of ladybirds invaded the pitch. Play was stopped for seven overs (an over is a set of six bowled balls) towards the end of the day’s play. Bear in mind that ladybirds bite. Their bites may be minor, but can be irritating. Several attacking at once might not be very pleasant.

In spells of hot weather, insects regenerate more quickly. Ladybirds are to be encouraged and welcomed, as they are rapacious predators, particularly of aphids, mites, and scale insects. Each ladybird larva can consume around 350 aphids daily, so they are valuable visitors to gardens and farms.

Ladybirds are known as an umbrella species because their presence or absence indicates the health of the overall ecosystem. They are also an important part of the food chain, providing sustenance for birds, arachnids, and amphibians.

They are not primarily pollinators, though they will feed on pollen and nectar. In particular, they like flowers such as yarrow, marigolds, and nasturtiums. They are also attracted to herbs including thyme, parsley, and fennel.

                                    Harlequin ladybird (Harmonia axyridis) 

            This is one of the less strkingly-coloured and patterned Harlequins.

Since 2004, invasive Harlequin (Harmonia axyridis) ladybirds have become a threat to native ladybirds. Harlequins are bigger, eat more aphids more quickly, and reproduce quicker than native ladybirds. They also eat the eggs and larvae of ladybirds, moths, and butterflies, thus upsetting the natural balance in Nature.

They come in many patterns and are attractive creatures. It is to be hoped that the two species – native and invasive – can eventually cohabit. It is probably a vain hope.

1939

 

1939

After the end of the First World War, the Duke of York, later to become King George VI, following his elder brother’s abdication, wanted to try and break down some of the class barriers rampant in Great Britain. He founded week-long summer camps, which ran annually until 1939, just before the outbreak of World War Two.

His ambition was to bring boys together from dissimilar circumstances to enjoy outdoor pursuits and find common ground and friendship. About five hundred boys from backgrounds as varied as public (fee-paying) boarding schools and mining communities were invited to join.

Southwold Common in Suffolk was a frequent location, and the Duke of York often joined the boys at the camps for a day, even after he became King. He enjoyed taking part in activities, which included games, swimming, talks and entertainments, and sleeping under canvas with the boys. The boys knew him as the Great Chief, and he wore the same uniform of shorts and shirt as they did. The importance of teamwork was emphasised.

In 1939, when it was clear that the country would soon be going to war again, and the young lads would be embroiled in combat, the King decided that he wanted to spend more than one day with ‘his boys’ and so invited them to Abergeldie Castle, three miles from Balmoral.

For this final camp, which he renamed the King’s Camp, the King invited just two hundred boys, and altered the emphasis from games and competition to discovering the wonders of nature. He planned all the activities, including mapping out hikes they would take. The boys were invited to tea at Balmoral Castle, where they met the Queen and the princesses.

The last camp commenced on 5^th August. War was declared on 1^st September, four weeks later.

Pathé News, which produced documentaries and newsreels for sixty years, from 1910 to 1970, presented a review of 1939. Part of it showed George VI and other members of the Royal Family at camp, singing ‘Underneath the spreading chestnut tree.’  It was a favourite song of his and was chosen for the 1948 Royal Command Performance.

It was also a favourite of mine, and one I enjoyed teaching. The lyrics, inspired by the first line of ‘The Village Blacksmith’ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1832) were written by J and H Kennedy. Hal Kemp set them to music and the song was recorded by the Glenn Miller Orchestra in 1939, with Marion Hutton. It’s delivered at a spanking pace, and I can imagine anyone attempting to add the actions would be quite breathless by the end.     

Below are the actions to the words, as clearly as I can set them out.

 

Underneath the spreading chestnut tree (spread arms above head, then touch chest, head and lift arms high)

I loved him and he loved me.                              (hands on heart, then hug)

There I used to sit upon his knee,                     (hands on knees)

‘Neath the spreading chestnut tree.                 (as before)

 

There beneath the boughs we used to meet,   (spread arms, then clasp hands)

All his kisses were so sweet:                            (kiss fingers)

All the little birdies went ‘tweet-tweet’         (fingers make bird beaks)

‘Neath the spreading chestnut tree.             (as before)

 

I said, ‘I love you and there ain’t no ifs or buts, (hands on heart, shake finger)

He said, ‘I love you’ and the blacksmith shouted, ‘Chestnuts!’ (hands on heart)

 

Underneath the spreading chestnut tree          (as before)

There he said he’d marry me,                           (mimic placing ring on finger)

Now you ought to see our family     (hand indicates heights of children on ‘fa-mi-ly)

‘Neath the spreading chestnut tree.                (as before)

 

 As with all songs or dances, there were adaptations. The following clips show two. The first shows the King and his family singing at a camp sing song.

 The second shows how the song emigrated to the USA to become a dance.

Underneath the spreading chestnut tree . . .

 

Underneath the spreading chestnut tree . . .

. . . there are thousands of spent catkins. They are about thirteen centimetres (five inches) long and carpet the woodland floor.

 Sweet chestnut sapling

The sweet chestnut tree (Castanea sativa) has grown in the UK for so many centuries that it is regarded as native, but it hails from southern Europe and Asia Minor. It was once thought to have been introduced by the Romans, but scientific methods have suggested that it was introduced much later. The first confirmed planting dates from around 1640 AD, though some ancient specimens probably existed in Tudor or Stuart periods.

It is believed to have survived the last Ice Age, approximately 115,000 to 11,700 years ago in southern Europe.

 It is a long-lived deciduous tree, attaining several hundred years and growing to heights approaching thirty-five metres with a girth of two metres. Some ancient examples are over two thousand years old, but most should be able to survive for around seven hundred years.

It belongs in the Fagaceae family alongside oaks and beeches.

As a young tree, its bark is smooth and greyish, but as it ages, it develops fissures which spiral upwards around the trunk. At about twenty-five years of age, it begins to produce fruit, shiny brown soft-shelled nuts enclosed in spiky, green cases.

The dried remnants of the catkin hang below the prickly casing of the chestnut.

The sweet chestnut is monoecious, meaning that it bears male and female flowers on the same tree. The strongly-scented catkins are mostly male flowers, with insignificant female flowers at the base. After they have been pollinated by insects, including blowflies, house flies, beetles and bees, the female flowers develop the fruits.

In late summer or early autumn, the woodland floor is littered with the ripe chestnuts, mostly all still within their prickly cases.

The wood of the sweet chestnut is similar to oak but easier to work with. The trees were extensively planted in Kent to be used in producing hop poles, because their wood was strong and rot-resistant. The hop industry has declined, although Kent is still the main hop-growing region in the country, but the wood is still used for fencing and stakes.

Strangely, although I was brought up in Kent, I don’t recall sweet chestnut trees being prominent in the landscape. They are much more prevalent where I now live, in Berkshire.

A born dancer?

 

A born dancer?

‘You don’t realise the true proportions of someone until you see them in a leotard,’ thought Sylvia. Fully dressed, Miranda was elegant and rather pretty. She was almost six feet tall and broad-shouldered and had the milky skin that so often goes with tawny hair.

She had taken ballet classes since she was four years old and was now seventeen. In the autumn she would be going to university and her dancing lesson days would be behind her.

Sylvia had encouraged her daughter to continue dancing lessons, recognising early on that the little girl was not going to develop into a small and dainty adult. She would need the discipline of dance or sport to teach her to coordinate her limbs. Miranda had never been interested in athletics or games, and didn’t care for swimming, but she had enjoyed dancing.

The introductory music started, and the audience ceased their chattering. First onto the stage tripped the very smallest girls and one little boy. They looked so sweet as they galloped around to the music, looking at each other to make sure they were doing the right thing. One of the children was very lissom and floated across the stage like thistledown. Miranda had never been like that, Sylvia thought, smiling a little sadly.

The more advanced classes followed, consisting mostly of girls with one or two boys. The differences in physique were more noticeable in the older students. Some were slim and fine-boned and in perfect proportion, while others were undergoing the tribulations of sudden growth spurts, when limbs didn’t quite match heads or trunks. Miranda had often seemed ungainly in her early teens but now looked much more balanced.

At last it was the turn of Miranda’s class to perform. All girls, they wore pointe shoes which clonked across the wooden boards of the village hall. Each dancer in turn performed a short solo and then they danced an ensemble piece. Miranda stood head and shoulders above the rest of the chorus. She had not been placed in the centre, where her mother had expected her to be, but off to the side, almost out of view. As the girls danced, Sylvia began to understand why. Miranda was always half a beat behind the others.

Through the years, Sylvia had noticed that her daughter’s timing was slightly askew when she played the piano or her guitar, but she had never recognised until now just how poor it was. As she reflected on this, she realised it had not improved and may even have become slightly worse as the years rolled by.

Over dinner that evening, Miranda confided in her mother that she was glad she would never have to dance on stage again. ’You know, Mum, everybody thinks I’m a terrible dancer, but I’m glad I stuck at it. My timing’s dreadful but dancing has taught me how to hold my head up high and always do my best.’

Sylvia smiled and squeezed her daughter’s hand. ‘I’m glad, too,’ she said.

 

Odd

 

Rain

The washing had been pegged out and then, as so often, the heavens opened, and the rain pelted down. Blithe claims that it would ‘just be another rinse for the washing’ died on my lips as the water level rose in the garden. It was a flash flood of Biblical proportions.  The laundry would be mud-streaked when the flood receded.

As ground turned to mud, sucking at my feet, I tried to return indoors.

It was going to be difficult, wading chest-high through the waters. I was beginning to panic . . .

 

 . . . and then I woke up!

Quelle surprise!

 

Quelle surprise!

Silver rudd (Scardinius Erythrophthalmus) are shoaling fish, and a good species to keep with other pond fish. They are peaceful and easy to look after. This photograph was taken a few years ago.

Who’d have thought it? Blow me down! Well, I never! You could have knocked me down with a feather (yeah, right)  . . . and other expressions of delight, amazement and astonishment.

What caused this delirium? After a period of at least two years of absence, two fish surfaced in our pond. We don’t know where they’ve been hiding.

Newly hatched fish fry are tiny and prey to many other aquatic species, like dragonfly and damselfly larvae and diving beetles. Parent fish cannibalise their young, but all our large adult fish had inexplicably disappeared and we hadn’t noticed any overweight herons bumbling around. The fish we saw have clearly survived the perils of fish babyhood.

So, it remains a mystery, but we were so pleased to see two little fish swimming about. There may be more, but those are the only ones we’ve seen. They are around 3” long, so may be mature enough to spawn. We shall see.

Today's little fish would not oblige and pose for a photograph, so this is a shot from a few years ago.

Poorly car!

 

Poorly car!

Marnie and Jake model a custom-built dog crate, many years ago.

Our sixteen-year-old car is languishing in the local car repair garage. It is the vehicle we use to transport the dogs. It is sturdy, workmanlike, and effective over rough ground as it has good ground clearance. It is not comfortable, and is only used for short journeys of less than ten miles.

Keeping dogs safe in cars is a concern. For a while, we had a crate in the boot and thought the dogs were secure in it. Then we read a couple of articles about cars being involved in accidents and the owners finding the crate impossible to open. Crates were abandoned.

Our dog box has a tailgate, through which the dogs enter the vehicle. There is strong netting separating their section from the driver/passenger compartment. Dogs have been ejected through the front windscreen on occasion, a horrifying accident which would surely never be forgotten, and so we took steps to avoid that.

The dogs are happy in their part of the car. One day, a following driver kept honking at us. We were puzzled, as we were not speeding or driving excessively slowly, and we were on a quiet road, the one we live on. Eventually, we stopped to find out what was causing the disturbance and discovered that we had not shut the tailgate. Three Labradors stood stoically and obediently, awaiting our word to disembark.

Waiting . . . 

We praised the dogs, shut the tailgate firmly and thanked the thoughtful driver who had alerted us.

Months ago, it became impossible to lock the dog car. That is, we could lock it but had to call the AA to unlock it, so we stopped locking it. The dog car is not a desirable automobile - no-one in their right mind would steal it, so we had no fears on that score. The most valuable things in it are our dogs and our walking poles, which we never leave in at the end of a walk.

Last week, the side door and the petrol cap locked themselves.

 Gremlins? Boggarts? Poltergeists?

Driver and passenger doors were still operational and so were the tailgate and the door at the passenger side of the rear compartment. The fear was that they too would lock themselves, and then the dogs would be trapped inside, with no means of releasing them. The strong netting has since been removed and the poorly car is enjoying an enforced holiday at the garage, awaiting spare parts.

Meanwhile, the dogs are appreciating the unexpected pleasure of travelling in the back of the eighteen-year-old estate car we use for journeys longer than thirty minutes – it’s more comfortable than the dog car.

People often ask why we use a car to take the dogs for a walk. We like to walk in the woods, which are a fifteen to twenty-minute walk from our house along narrow pavements. We prefer to take a short drive and let the dogs run free quicker than they otherwise would.

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.