Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Giant Pickle

I found this piece of spam in my inbox this morning:

Do you like charming the ladies? Watch their jaws drop when you whip out your improved giant pickle!

Er – quite!

Sunday, December 02, 2007


Tango at El Portenito this evening. Leo, the host, usually intersperses the tango with a salsa or two, and sometimes a jive or a cha cha cha, during the evening.

I always long for someone to ask me to salsa, although this longing is tinged with nervousness that someone might actually do so because I don’t actually salsa! On one or two occasions in the past, however, I have managed to do a passing version of a salsa when I have had a leader who understands that they need to keep it uncomplicated. And lead clearly. This has led me to a (false, as it turned out) confidence in my ability to do that particular dance.

I happened to be dancing with one of my regular partners when a salsa came on. I made the mistake, on a past occasion, of telling this same man that I have never learned to salsa and would need a good lead – assuming that he would dance with me and treat me gently – only to have him walk off and find another partner! Barsteward! So this time, when he asked if I salsa, I said yes.

Me, salsa? Har har! Ten seconds later I wanted to go back in time and unsay it! Tom seemed to be in a rhythm all of his own – I have no idea what music he was listening to in his head, but it certainly wasn’t anything that I could hear, and his feet were doing nothing that my feet could replicate. And he was winding my arms around my head and behind my back and just not getting it that I was JUST NOT GETTING IT! At the same time I was trying to keep the shoulder strap of my dress from sliding down and exposing bouncing bits of me that I’m sure people would prefer not to see, plus trying to keep my ring from flying off my finger – not helped by Tom sliding it down my finger every time he grabbed my hand – and also being rather embarassingly aware that my dress was wafting a little too high every time I spun round.

My thoughts during the dance were not:

“Hey, I can do this, I look so cool, I bet everyone wishes they could dance like me!”

Instead my thoughts dotted about, something like this:
“Eh? What is he doing? Ow! Ooh no, I think I showed my knickers then! And my fat belly, I can feel it hanging down over my knickers! Oh god, why does Charles have to be watching me NOW? What the hell rhythm is this bloke dancing to? Is this really salsa? God why can’t we sit down! Huh? What is he trying to do? No my arms can’t do that, you silly man! Oh no, my ring, please don’t pull off my ring! When will this torture ever END!”

It was one of the most embarrassing dances of my life. I couldn’t wait for it to be over. I expect Tom felt heartily the same way!

Charles and I had been to Leo’s other milonga, in Wimbledon, on Friday. I didn’t get many dances, then, because Charles was seated next to me and for some reason that always stops other men asking me to dance. I see them look over at me and then look away again as soon as they spot him.

I managed to get Charles to realise this by the end of that milonga, so tonight he spent part of the evening sitting on the other side of the room in order that I could get asked to dance by some other people. It worked, thank goodness! However, I think it’s so silly that that I can’t sit and talk to Charles whilst waiting to be asked to dance! Charles explained that, psychologically, on a primitive level, men see a woman as the possession of a particular man so they can’t go up and ‘take’ a woman from another male. Apparently this would be morally wrong in Man Code! Men, huh!