house of happy

Life adventures in prose and verse. Explorations of places, people and words. Stories and fun.

Monday, 13 June 2016

Weekend

Friday: a blur.

Saturday, first thought of the day: 'Where am I?' Because I'm not in my bed.

Now, I would be both scandalised and flattered if your pulse jumped a (tiny) notch when you read the sentence 'I'm not in my bed', now stop it. I'm not in my bed because my bed has no mattress. My mattress has been dragged into the living room and four teenage girls are sleeping on it like cannelloni in a tray. Sleepover in progress.

Four teenage girls sleeping late on Saturday morning equals uninterrupted, unparalleled bliss: coffee, sunshine, books, news, imaginary news (in the invented land of Vora), some scribbling, more coffee.

 Once we are all up, the day becomes a blur.

Liberating thought of the day: Brexit is irrelevant here. Scotland is not leaving the European Union. With or without England, Scotland is staying in Europe.

Happy hour: flamenco show at Alba Flamenca (my dance school!) Beautiful dancers and musicians perform with exuberant joy to a public of about 23 people (it's a very small room). I'm not even going to talk about the rhythms and the passion, and the sensual grace of the dancers - those arched backs, the strength, the infernal steps. It seems for a moment too exotic and otherworldly for the austere audience, well-meaning though they may be, clutching their riojas, overwhelmed.

The funny thing is I used to look at such dancers and think Oh yeah, flamenco, prance about, arms gracefully arched, flowers, optional castanets, easy peasy. So, despite my own regrettable two-left-feet status, I blithely enrolled in flamenco classes. A few months later I know, blister by blister, how hard each step is and don't even get me started about the arms. So to me, tonight's flamenco show is a bit like the clouds parting and the peak of K2 glinting in the far distance. That's how much ground I'd need to cover, the precise difference between my stamping and flapping and these dancers' ease and perfection. The only thing we have in common is the standard flamenco shoe and the fact that our ancestors shouted olé or something similar (the Romanian aoleu comes to mind) - at angry livestock.

Sunday: what, it's gone? 

2 Comments:

At 14 June 2016 at 09:46 , Blogger ecoloic said...

Are you on your way to becoming a red flamingo or a read flamingo?
Thank you for posting, it is a more subtle way to connect.
Come and visit us in England before the potential Brexit, would love to catch up and see you all! Affectionately, L.

 
At 15 June 2016 at 21:52 , Blogger Monica WM said...

Hi Loic, you do realise I'm not the lovely red flamingo, don't you... although flattered to be mistaken for one :))) Also, to visit England after potential Brexit could soon be classed as foreign travel. Hope you are all well. I am often inspired by your blog. How was your year after Bali? x

 

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