What a Swell Party It Is

The slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune are whirling around with frenzied abandon - brand new iPod in the sink, the hard-drive gives up the ghost (if anyone mentions the word back-up I shall almost certainly cry blood); on a personal note it's been the end of a tempestuous era (for the best though), and to top it all there's the ignominy of getting just that slightly bit older. And celebrating said aging by getting a fringe cut in - so I look like a disgruntled Vulcan. It could all be worse, I suppose.

It's not all doom and gloom; some good things have come my way - I've discovered I can earn a living off Deal or No Deal on quiz machines, and I went to see the excellent live podcast recording of Collings and Herrin at St David's hall where I became indoctrinated into the black arts of 'secret dancing'.

Secret dancing is a wonderful thing indeed; the basic tenant is -if people can see you movin' and a groovin' (when you're on a train, bus or public non-dancing area: somewhere that no public displays of rhythm are allowed by law) then... you aren 't doing it right!

Give it a try; I can confirm there's something strangely satisfying about surreptiously patting your pockets to to a hidden beat, scratching you ear when a high note plays... that is if you have a working mp3 player, and earphone obviously. However, since I don't I'm forced to make my own entertainment, this includes whistling annoyingly, and occassionally talking to myself like the mad old woman I am.

Still like I said earlier it could all be worse: I could be the person sitting next to the Vulcan be-fringed, gibbering, whislter on the bus. Ho-hum.