It’s been a while. The truth is, I’ve been feeling a little eeyore-ish and glum, and each time I’ve opened up the “new post” window, nothing has happened. Type a sentence, delete it; type a word, for instance “hello”, delete it; click away from page; go read someone who has something interesting to say.
(Room 101: Blogger Edition. Item no 1- bloggers who blog about blogging. And then blog about blogging about blogging. Out, out, damn spot!)
Every post I try to write seems to boil down to “things that piss me off” (see last week’s offering). So now I’ve given up the ghost. Let’s talk about things that piss me off!
I go to a Street Dance class on Tuesday nights, which I greatly enjoy. Incidentally, yesterday we learned a new move which the teacher rather creepily demonstrated by saying “imagine you’re tiptoeing over a body”. The class takes place at an actual bona fide dance school, and sometimes some of the students- at least I assume that’s who they are, given their top dance skillz- come to the amateur classes, bodypopping with their baggy trousers and firm little torsos and artfully mussed hair, alongside the rest of us in our tatty jogging bottoms and Barack Obama t-shirts (question: it’s no longer cool to wear am Obama tee is it? Also please note that my Obama tee does not impact upon my journalistic impartiality).
The Dance Kids really get on my nerves. I am not (just) jealous because they are young and lithe boys and girls, who might one day get the chance to dance in a Justin Timberlake video, instead of lumbering sweatily around the living room demonstrating their Street Dance moves to their boyfriend and imagining they are in a Justin Timberlake video. I am not even resentful of their ability to bust a perfectly-timed move.
They annoy me because they are smug little show-offs, who must be thrilled that dance studios come lined with mirrors, so they can gaze lovingly into their own eyes as they leap and preen. They clap themselves and indulge in ad lib grinding with their fellow DKs, all the while admiring themselves in the mirrors.
They also whisper about people. I am not being paranoid. One girl (who is particularly irritating and wears trousers four sizes too big, as if to say “look how wee I am, I’m swamped in by these child-size joggers!”), actually put her hand up to her companion’s ear last night, and whispered something as they both looked pointedly at a less graceful member of our troupe.
I’m sure the Dance Kids are fairly benign, but they are so caught up the fact of being cool that they don’t stop to be humble about their talent, which would ironically make them so much more attractive. I mean, we all have our skills, and that doesn’t mean we need to show off and make other people feel bad. I don’t pose in front of a mirror whilst directing a piece-to-camera.
The reason they get to me, really, is because my sister was really good at dancing. Like, really good. Better than the Dance Kids, in my opinion. So, I confess, I’m bitter that they are still here making me feel like a performing bear when I dance next to them; whereas she is no longer here to spend the entire time dancing while we are supposed to be washing up, or putting on a hooded white dressing gown over her pyjamas and pretending to be Kylie in the Can’t Get You Out Of My Head video.
She was also very pretty. Prettier than the Dance Kids (you get the picture. I vastly prefer her to the DKs). After she died, one girl wrote in the condolence book that H was “the only one who looked good in a catsuit”. Actually, that particular girl also looked good in a catsuit. She was also killed three years later, which just goes to show: life isn’t fair.
So, to recap: H was sixteen, tall, skinny, beautiful and a brilliant dancer. And yet! She was nothing but nice, and kind, and tender. She would never whisper about people behind her hand or show off or stare at herself in the mirror. In fact she was more likely to help someone who couldn’t learn a move. Her dance teacher always tells us how H put elastic bands around her hands to practice her GCSE dance piece (she got top marks in class), when she was told that she should keep her fingers together to make the dance more elegant.
Which means that, though in my heart I know that the Dance Kids are harmless and just young and narcicisstic, I can’t help but think- to slightly misquote the Beegees, whose music reminds me of my sister: she should be dancing. She should be dancing too.