The Dance


I have this picture of an ardent suitor marking his dance-card in advance and letting himself in at the end for a knock round the face with a fan and a slow walk home alone.


Dance-cards? Fans? Wrong scene, I am at the bar of a Wetherspoons pretending to read the Echo and you are busy sorting cutlery, yonder in the field of mustard pots.


But my heart has gone to a ball, it is putting its little pointy toe out, prinked and pomaded it is feinting and falling back for you to step, one, two, and forward again, banquets and golden carriages to ensue.


Marry, but that’s a merry tableau I’ve got going on down there between the breast-bone and left arm, between the left arm and where you stand pleating paper napkins into swans, or maybe fans, I can’t see from here.


J ata r ks on hn Booe


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