Unexplained Terpsichorean Exuberance

Still, a certain amount of terpsichorean exuberance is justifiable at certain times in life. However, maybe this was not one of those times, especially not to those waiting in the queue at the roadworks for the temporary traffic lights to change.

Sometimes though, dancing is the only option, at least to a certain sort of person.

She was – apparently – that certain sort of person.

For most people, dancing is something only undertaken in youth, and then only on particular occasions. There are even – to denote the significance of the undertaking – special places set aside for the committing of a dance. In days gone by, these would be ballrooms. Later they would become discos. These days – so we are reliably informed – they are just called clubs. Luckily, once you are past a certain age and, in particular, if you are male, there is little necessity for one to commit an act of public dancing. The only exception to this rule is, of course, at the wedding receptions of one’s own children. An occasion where a certain amount of celebration could lead to a spontaneous outbreak of fatherly dancing, at least until the bill arrives.

However, for those of us waiting in the queue at the traffic lights there was little about her to indicate she had even been to a wedding in the immediate past.

Still, these days there is the ever-present danger of hidden-camera shows, student pranks, flash mobs, charity events and PR stunts. As well as all those other similar events that can make the daily grind significantly more irritating than usual. So none of us stuck there were too worried about this sudden and seemingly spontaneous outbreak of dancing for no easily-apparent reason. Nor were we worried about what exactly was the tune she was dancing to. After all, modern ear-bud technology has reached such an unobtrusive state these days. So even people apparently talking or singing to themselves as they make their way down the street are no longer the objects of interest and curiosity they once were in days gone by.

Although, those of us with our car windows wound down while we waited, in the rather un-British heat of late summer, for those lights to change didn’t think that much of her artistic interpretation. Nor did we appreciate the somewhat over-exuberance of her hand gestures as she gyrated and pirouetted around the stationary vehicles in the queue.

Of course, some of us were worried that her sudden outbreak of dancing would not be over by the time the traffic lights changed. Consequently, those of us in the queue behind her now abandoned car were concerned we’d have further inconvenience and delay from her performance, entertaining as it was.

Anyway, only moments before the light changed, her dance stopped as suddenly as it started and she strode back to her car.

As she passed my open window, I heard her mutter to herself. ‘I hate bloody wasps.’

I saw her get in her car and wind the side window back up. Then, as the lights changed, she drove off.


Published by David Hadley

A Bloke. Occasionally points at ducks.

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