Escaping your past

Most Friday and Saturday nights of my youth were spent dancing, as Kevin Bacon would say, my ass off.

Gunfighter’s Rest and The Crazy Horse were my usual haunts. It was the bulkest of fun.

These days, my dancing is restricted to the (very) occasional party.

But I went to a bar on Friday night where fiftysomethings let their inner twentysomethings run free.

While it sounds like nirvana, it gave me pause.

The place was full of 50 to 60-year-olds dancing with wild abandon and very little co-ordination to a live band that was playing covers of Dire Straits, Stevie Wonder and The Police songs.

The 50 to 60-year-olds would occasionally pause from their frottage/grooving to thrust their tongues down each other’s throats.

The bar was on the smallish side, so the frottage/grooving/tonsil hockey took place within centimetres of the live band, who were lucky to be 20.

The 20-year-olds showed remarkable restraint in keeping their facial expressions neutral as the action played out on the dancefloor.

I found it both fascinating and disturbing to realise that’s what it looks like when I down three chardies, wobble out onto a dancefloor in my heels, and shake my groove thing while groping DD.

I mean … I still want to do it … but now I know what it looks like.

It’s a very vivid mental picture.

(The picture above is just something I stole off the Internet.)

The next morning, I had a lovely time filling out a questionnaire Renault sent me, asking how happy I am with my car on the third anniversary of its purchase.

One question was: would I recommend Renault to my friends or family? It gave me deep satisfaction to respond that there is NO WAY ON THIS EARTH I would recommend it. I also noted that all I have to do is mention my car needs one litre of oil every 4-6 months and they’re instantly turned off.

The survey also asked what car I would buy next time and I wrote “Toyota” but held back from adding a one-finger emoji.

On Sunday, I headed north to trawl the annual Avalon markets. I always make the mistake of thinking I’m a markets person when I’m not. Within two stalls I’m completely over the crowds and crazy price tags and hippy clothes and want to go home again.

Unfortunately for my wallet, the second stall was Silk Route. Silk Route was one of my favourite shops when my ex and I lived in Bondi. It’s full of exotic clothes and gorgeous homewares.

We even got everyone to chip in for a brass and coloured glass Moroccan light shade from there as one of our wedding presents. Talk about a blast from the past, the shopkeeper and I had a lovely chinwag about the good ol’ Bondi days.

I was there to shop for Christmas presents, but ended up buying myself an overpriced beach cover-up slash kaftany thing. The colours were so glorious and it had orange fringeing. I’m a sucker for anything orange … that’s what sold me on my crap-box Renault.

I’m a bit ashamed about buying the kaftany thing – I can’t afford it and I’ll probably look like a brightly coloured beach ball.

Oh well, it’s done now. And it can’t be un-done because the woman running the stall had forgotten her payment machine thingy so she just took down my credit card details on a piece of paper and I wombled off into the throng.

After fighting my way through the crowds for a few more minutes, I gave up and caught the bus to DD’s house for a barbie with his old uni mates – the one who were in the band that performed at my birthday. DD got the ping pong table out and I lazed around in the afternoon sun sipping cider while everyone else did all the hard work. My job was nibbles, so all I had to do was take a few lids off a few dips and chuck some chips in a bowl.

I felt lovely and relaxed when I headed home at dusk.

But Monday has dawned and jury duty awaits … keep your fingers crossed for me …

Song of the day: Dire Straits “Sultans of Swing”






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