To the gym on sunny Saturday morning where I break the still surface of the deserted outside pool creating a shimmer of refracted light like a David Hockney painting (my Mum reports that his new exhibition at the Royal Academy is excellent although she says the rooms aren't big enough for some of the huge works).
The evening takes me to a friend's birthday party which goes very well. For once I strike the right balance over the six hours, spending just five minutes arguing (on my usual hobby-horse about why the oppressive BBC licence fee should be abolished, why should I pay a tax on pain of going to prison to pay for EastEnders and the Vicar of Dibley, etc, etc - all pointless as my collocutors are meeja people) and five hours and fifty-five minutes dancing. In the early hours I compare notes walking home with Mrs Blog who seems also to have enjoyed herself.
This morning the incipient cold I've had for few days has taken a fierce grip so I am attemting to swamp it with sweet tea and settling in to watch the rugby.
Postscript:
Cheesy Iberian disco duo Baccara is often referenced as an example of trite lyrics but I'm not so sure. There is a poetic and subtle, self-satirising quality (and certainly it captures the spirit of last night) in these words...
No Sir
I don't feel very much like talking
No, neither walking
You wanna know if I can dance
Yes Sir
Already told you in the first verse
And in the chorus
But I will give you one more chance.
The alternating "Yes Sir/No Sir" motif is especially effective, in a long tradition of teasing, "can't make my mind up" love poetry. To hear the first verse and indeed the rest of this splendid masterclass in unashamed 1970s hoopla go to this link. And note the hesitant, poorly-synchronised, and yet strangely alluring dance moves. Sensational!
