We were both in just such a mood last Friday. This is something of a rarity at the moment. Salsa politics and bitching (bitching and dancing are the same gene) have been taking their toll, and we’ve been going out more in honour of the memory of the fine salsa times we’ve had in the past, rather than in anticipation of the pleasure of the night to come. I guess if anything becomes routine it becomes, well, routine.
This all changed a few weeks ago when, due to extreme nuttiness of the work situation, I had probably a record three solid weeks of no dancing. Rachael didn’t say so, but seemed relieved.
Months ago I’d arranged a mad cross-country dash on Friday to go dancing at a club run by someone I met on the internet, and I was determined to go.
Omens were mixed. Rachael was in a dancing mood and had convinced Sarah to come too, spirits were high and I’d been getting emails of important fashion developments. On the downside, the car had felt slightly strange on the way to work, losing power when I pushed the ‘go’ pedal. I gave it a drink of oil and crossed my fingers. (The car is on its deathbed now, leaking gearbox oil, having multiple cracked, missing, or malfunctioning parts).
So we piled into the wee car and drove to horwich, where a wonderful night was had by all. The mix of music and of dance styles and ability, coupled with the lack of “critical eyes” meant we could all relax and practice that most sacred of dancing arts: goofing off.
On the motorway, about 0:30 and one mile west of here, we noticed the indicators didn’t work. Or the wipers. Or headlights. Or hazard lights. One mile is a long way on the hard shoulder with nearly zero visibility and trucks thundering past. We made it to birch services and I opened the bonnet and wiggled some wires, but the engine then wouldn’t even start.
We called the AA who said they’d be with us within 90 minutes. Rachael decided to see how much it was to stay at the Travelodge. Sarah was supportive, being a fan of shite cars and an all-round supportive type person. Then Rachael got the call from the AA to say there would be someone to see us in about 20 minutes, and that he was called Dave. From that moment we knew we would be alright.