re-evaluate along the dotted line

I am having a little moment next to the dancefloor, despite the fact that I've had a great time with my friends, despite the fact that I've had three glasses of wine which I discover under the new administration now means 'pissed', and despite the fact that the last act as well as being very funny had a really, really, really nice arse*.I wish I were dancing, I wish I were at home, I wish I were younger, prettier, thinner, blonder, stupider. Mainly I wish I wasn't bloody single.

Trouble emerges from the loos, and we stand for a while admiring the diverse dance styles and categorising them. 'Desperately overconfident' and 'Good grief, a tank top?**' are the two main categories. My moment passes. We abandon the struggle with our limited self-respect and push our way to the centre of the dancefloor, where we run through a lengthy gamut of openly stupid dance moves. These moves were mainly developed as a result of working on a routine for 'Ugly Bug Ball' last summer with a class of very 'special' 7yr olds, and needless to say we fit in seamlessly. We are drawing admiring glances. Or something.

Using the tried-and-tested method of pointing an elbow forwards at head level and following it we tour the dancefloor. There is a paltry selection of geeks, 18yr olds, and those who may be dancing but who may also be stumbling slightly. As usual, Trouble is propositioned. We make our excuses and leave.



*Oh that arse. I shall be thinking about it for days. I am quite sidetracked now; even through the hangover. Oh my goodness.
** Tank tops are in again. You heard it here first. Don't even think about it if you're over 25. I'm getting one tomorrow. Cable knit.