Reasons to be CHEERFUL

Today a chunky little spider niagara’d splutteringly out of the cats’ bowl and into the sink as I changed their water. He stayed motionless for a second then realised he was still breathing, and that some Evil Being was poking him with a kitchen towel. Brave spider, he never stopped battling; after a bit of frenetic ping-ponging I got him to STAY ON THE TOWEL! long enough to deposit him behind the fridge, there to dry out calmly and rebuild his life.

Oh Joy and great Cheer!

Just one of countless Reasons to be Cheerful, as we are reminded by the late and wonderful Ian Drury and his merry Blockheads:

Exactly!  And are not we all left grinning? 

What else?

Well, how about a jaunt in a Barefoot Park? Such was the subject of the ‘article of the day’ 19.11.12 in TheFreeDictionary http://www.thefreedictionary.com/   (itself a cheer-bringer).
Here’s an enticing excerpt:

"Popular in Europe, barefoot parks are places where visitors can dispense with shoes and safely experience various landscape textures underfoot. Their well-maintained terrain affords visitors the opportunity to walk across different types of soil, wade through streams, and even practise climbing—all while barefoot. Some parks offer activities such as foot gymnastics, in which people can practise picking up objects with their feet."

Haven't we all ached to set our feet free?   Particularly those of us with but a strip of gravel for a garden, that the cats think is their outside litter tray.  

Dancing, of course, unlike sporty activities, is a fabulous reason to be cheerful, particularly when wobbling to Brown Sugar, or to La Bamba

Other beam-inducers:

The perfectly-timed arrival of a huge and mysterious parcel full of something extravagant for Christmas  (surely?) just before we went out;


Cat wrapped round the settee, responding to my enthusiastic 'Who's-a-good-boy-'den?' with that sullen indifferent stare honed by cats everywhere;



Being whisked through glorious hill and dale in clattery old  London underground carriage, now reborn as exotic-island train;

Lidl and Poundland - packed with bargains and ever-smiley staff;

Radio 4, specially Ed Reardon's Week and in spite of unbearable bouts of cricket (avoidable on FM);

And can we forget the delights of an impulsive weekend away//a new job//new hair//new snakeskin shoes (just PRETENDING to be snakes), or communing with old friends not seen for aeons (they can run - but they can't...).  Oh Deep and Joyful Cheer!


Well, it's Tomorrow now.  The postman brought another Reject for one of my practically-famous magazine stories, the cat's pooped overnight behind the setee, and the microwave exploded my porridge when I wasn't looking.  Aaaarrrggghhh - I can't go ON with this cheerful stuff!

Well maybe just once more...  But I shan't be Exuberated.

Here is a gladsome glimpse of Penguins at Waddle.  Don't miss the brilliant demonstration of baby transporting about two minutes in! (though baby doesn't look entirely sure).

In case of Emergency, break out Glamour Poncho

For an essential shopping trip to The Big Town, how fortunate we'd chosen a day of gentle showers.

I ducked soddenly into my favourite BigTown bookshop for a distracting delve and eventually, loins girded, took my merry New Yorker birthday cards and my Clare Boylan to the till. 

'And would you like an Emergency Poncho with that?' muttered the assistant without much conviction.

I declined, pointing out that I was so wet already, a plastic poncho on top would turn me into a steaming great greenhouse.  'OK,' she sighed, and explained,  'We bought in a truckload for the Festival.  It was cancelled at the last minute due to a forecast of inclement weather...'

I mentioned this cruel circumstance to George when we collided outside the Goat and Spinnaker.

'And you didn't buy one?' he gasped, rain ricocheting off his ears.

'Well...'

'Dolores,' he said, 'In this deluge of a summer, £2.99 is a surely a small price to pay for such reassurance. You can just stick it in your handbag and forget it.'

There are already many things stuck in my handbag and forgotten. I suppose as tat goes, this could turn out to be handier than most of it...


The assistant at the till seemed surprised at my change of heart. She now had to ferret about under the counter, where she'd stuffed her artistic display of ponchos in an evident loss of all hope. I must say, the dinky little packet was encouragingly bright, and had the word GLAMOUR  emblazoned over a cartoon image of a fifties Glamourous Person suggesting the overall filmstar effect it would endow. 


It also had a jolly joke about raining Cats and Dogs and stepping in a Poodle!!!  Plus an ominous warning:  'This is a single use emergency poncho! (although with careful handling it may be re-used)'.

What a disappointment!  I'd imagined my poncho sticking thickandthinly by me for years to come!  

If your handling hadn't been very careful, I suppose you could find something else for it to do: why not stretch the remains out on the mud, for example, and lay out a picnic. Then wrap the leftovers in it.
Or you could use it to haunt people...

 

In fact, haven't we all at some stage, hankered after just such a garment.



The other week, George and I saw loads of them in use at a Morris Dancing extravaganza - what better way to keep enormous bells and whistles dry? (I bet these dancers wish they had them)!












I haven't unleashed my Emergency Poncho yet, the summer becoming quite sunny as it blends into autumn. And I couldn't quite banish the image of those concertina head-scarf rainhats from the sixties.


How does one glamourise a poncho, I pondered...

Right - I'm off to add a fistful of tassles 

_

A Dance called Madison

Come on Dolores! It’s the MADISON!!

Er, no thanks, you go ahead – I’m not keen on… No, honestly, it’s too complicated… Look, last time I tripped someone up and the whole line went with her - I really don’t want to. Oh god! – alright then!

Do YOU Madison? Or did you, like me, believe it was an American city, an avenue, a square… ?

Well, it’s SO much more! Very soon after arriving in the land of fine wines and goats cheese, we discovered that ‘Madison’ was French for Line Dance. And Never stand in the way of frenzied hordes answering the call!

I usually avoid situations where it might happen, but recently George and I went to two musical gatherings where it sneaked in. Many times.

This clip shows people engaged therein:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=95NjjrXzhak

If you take a peek, you’ll see the Lines of people merrily stepping forwards, backwards and allways with intermittent jumps and hops and turns, and all perfectly synchronised! How do they do this? Was it compulsory at school? A new vocation for gap years, perhaps?

I happen to love dancing; anything by the Stones will set me off… Salsa, Cajun, Eighties Disco or a chance to Twist again…

But the Madison (remember Achey Breaky Heart?) is surely more a sort of Chinese Water Torture by skipping. And I’m always skipping in the wrong direction. All alone…

Last time, somebody very kindly took pity on my flailings and ran all the way from the other end of the line to instruct me step by step. A wonderful woman.

Of course I’d forgotten everything by the next Madison, and fell over in the general agitation. Cunningly I lay still, hoping to be stretchered off. Nobody noticed. And George was engrossed in playing accordeon. (Actually, would it be quicker for me to learn that than the Madison…)

Later, as I peered out from under a table at more lines of flittering feet, Wonderful-Woman’s head suddenly dipped down in front of mine and beamed, “I’m going to explain the Secret of Madison: It’s always exactly the same steps!”

Wow - So that's it! She then wrote these steps down on a napkin (which had evidently been made good use of during the tiramasu earlier):

Step left forward; Place right beside left (no weight) & clap; Step back on right; Move left foot back & across the right; Move left foot to the left; Move left foot back & across the right.

Well, that doesn't seem too hard... I took these precious lines home to study, and practised and practised until it became for me, too, a thing of Wonder, that I even pondered Youtubing to.


Did I hell! It's bloody Impossible!