Love lift me up where I belong

Today I danced with a man over 300 feet above my head, which gives new meaning to the term flirting from a distance.

The day had started badly however when, looking at the internet even before I got out of bed, I consulted Facebook and was informed that “[cousin] has added ‘doughnuts’ to her interests,” which briefly made me lose the will to live.

This evening however a different cousin, Gombaz, celebrated her 22nd birthday in fine style by transforming the patch of concrete at the bottom of our building into a Miami style party. She went all out and included: a DJ, disco lighting effects, high stools and tables and a drunk girl crying about a bloke on the stairs – which is of course mandatory at any party. Proceedings began early, so while the kids downstairs listened to variations on an alarm clock synchronised with a drum machine, Amnesiac the old hag debated whether the party was worth wasting a two quid pair of disposable contact lenses on. Things have reached the point where I assess whether or not to use a pair of lenses using a cost/benefit differential involving number of hours and book reading men presence as factors.

In case you are wondering, I lived dangerously and went with the lenses, which turned out to the be the right decision, but only because my glasses would have got steamed up with the smoke machine.

The proximity of the party to her domicile meant that even cousin Mildred made a brief surprise appearance, and revelled in the fact that she can still turn heads despite having produced two kids. Her jeans did indeed seem to have a hypnotising effect, as did the intense Baba Ghanoug smell she emitted each time she spoke until I informed her in no uncertain terms that if she uttered another syllable, I would pass out.

Midpoint through the party two ladies of an uncertain currency arrived, both dressed in super short daisy dukes, one all in pink the other in denim. Pink lady was wearing what appeared to be a blond platinum wig. Denim woman was brunette. Their arrival and installation next to the buffet caused quite a sensation, and I have never seen so many men suddenly develop such a ferocious hunger. I am ashamed to say that my feminism briefly left me and I made many references to money, but can you really blame me when they were dancing hand in hand and chest to chest, mouthing lyrics to each other, while men skidded around on their own saliva? Sharshar – whilst ogling their thighs – remarked that there is something wrong that minxes such as these are allowed through police checkpoints and are left to roam the country.

Apart from amusing myself (and only myself) by wearing two conical party hats in a devil style, I ventured to the toilet in order to procure chilled beverages from the bath, which meant waiting for people to finish throwing up or snogging or even urinating. On one of these occasions I was set upon by an intoxicated gentleman who claimed he was called ‘Solo.’ I of course objected to this since he was not carrying a light sabre, at which point he conceded that his name was Mohamed, which made me think of Bono and his boring real name, so I buggered off tout de suite.

Back in the garden I remarked that a silhouetted man in a suit in the block of flats opposite was dancing in the window in a conspicuous manner, like a grounded child watching his friends play outside. I proceeded to do the arm movements which resemble those of the lollipop men who guide taxiing aircraft, and which I call dancing, and was delighted when Window Man copied me hundreds of feet away. This continued for some time until blood circulation to my hands was compromised by their continued elevation, and until I realised that Window Man lives opposite me, or at least visits there, and may expect the YMCA routine every time our respective window opening coincides.

Shortly after that the soundtrack switched to Salsa, which is guaranteed to kill any party with a less than 90 per cent South American quotient. I left at the point, surprised that none of the neighbours had called the police, and armed with the empirical knowledge that any party at which you have been watched sporadically by your cat on a balcony, and in which you have only danced with a shadow, is unlikely to be the best.

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7 Responses to Love lift me up where I belong

  1. Marwa Rakha says:

    LOL @ “I proceeded to do the arm movements which resemble those of the lollipop men who guide taxiing aircraft, and which I call dancing”

    By trial and error, you will get to know upfront which parties to go to and which ones to skip with no remorse.

  2. Amnesiac says:

    Marwa I long ago set my attitude towards parties to the default ‘will be crap in absence of something remarkable happening’ and am now notoriously anti-sociable.
    The sheer volume of the music and the fact that it was directly below my flat meant that even if I hadn’t taken myself downstairs, I would have had to ‘enjoy’ the music forcibly.

  3. Basil Fawlty says:

    I remember the exact moment I knew for sure the quality of my life had plunged into the toilet (a public one): November, 1998. I was in a seedy pub in Mohandisseen, staring at a steak and kidney pie and wondering if it would give me mad cow disease.

    When you’re in a pub and your higher concern is not catching a food-based neurodegenerative disease, you might as well just turn in your nuts.

  4. Forsoothsayer says:

    you’re not that bad a dancer actually…you did ok at my birthday party to which you were equally forced to go…
    dude, your glasses really should not be worn outside your kitchen. as someone with pretty scary glasses also i can safely say that.

    references to money? mish fahma. you mean that they were Professionals?

  5. faisal says:

    Han Solo never carried a light saber. He was not…. force sensitive. His sons were, but they were only in the books and not in the movies.

    It was a witty thing to say nevertheless!

    *cough*

  6. Amnesiac says:

    Forsooth I will stop wearing my glasses forever the day one can either buy replacement eyes like spare tyres, or they invent contact lenses that don’t make me feel like I have inserted hedgehogs into my eyesockets.

    Faisal, mad propz yo for the commitment to the cause. I stand corrected.

    I must have been thinking of Luke Skywalker. In fact I was thinking about anything rather than the individual before me who calls himself Solo.

  7. faisal says:

    Oh, yeah, btw… your glasses look cool. I see no problem with you wearing them khales.

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