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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