building.
The same pattern continued throughout the next forty minutes – that of learning a move, only to have it immediately switched to another. I watched the clock with the same foolish devotion of the bored factory worker. Time, of course, passes more slowly when monitored. The agony is prolonged.
What was most upsetting was that Sandra seemed to be utilising every dance movement known to man except the grapevine. My chance to shine was being denied. It wasn’t until the very last song, when the clock was reading 8.26, that Sandra suddenly called ‘Grapevine!’
Brilliant! At last! I thought, and I leapt into that move like a shot – with all the gusto and all the enthusiasm I could muster. I knew what I was doing at last.
There was a problem though.
I went left and the rest of the class went right.
‘Sorry!’ I blurted out, as I kicked the lady next to me quite hard on the shin.
She looked away, either lost in her dancing, or in her fury. I had dealt her quite a blow, but she did not even break stride. Adrenalin was carrying her through.
‘Well done, ladies! A great class!’ announced Sandra at 8.30 on the dot.
The gaggle of ladies applauded. The solitary man hung his head. He tried to seek out the lady he had kicked to make another attempt at an apology, but she was in a huddle with another group, no doubt bad-mouthing him.
The man went home alone, rubbing an elbow that was now hurting, following an earlier collision with a solid wall. He had a bath. He went to bed.
He wouldn’t be doing Zumba again in a hurry.
***
He was back at the village hall again all too soon, though, twenty-four hours not being enough time for the scars to have healed. The Zumba elbow was still sore too.
I had never been to an AGM before. I’d happily, and somewhat irresponsibly, lived in a world where the running of things was done by others. My life had been one in which I’d been happy to complain and criticise where necessary, whilst ensuring that I never became involved in any of the processes that had led to the decisions or policies that I disliked. That was about to change.
Fran and I got to the hall at 7.02 p.m. About twenty-five people were already seated in a semicircle in front of the table that presumably contained the vestiges of the outgoing committee. Village life seemed to be well-represented, from the grubby to the well-turned-out, but there were no children. Or young people. Surprisingly, they had chosen other activities ahead of sitting in a hall on a summer’s evening, listening to their elders discussing how it might best be managed. Even the youngsters who might have been interested could have a more stimulating experience playing the computer game ‘AGM’, in which the chairman can be zapped if he gets someone’s name wrong, or fails to point out the fire exits.
Heads turned to see who it was that had turned up two minutes late. We lived less than five minutes’ walk away, so not being on time wasn’t impressive, but both Fran and I are good at faffing. 1
The meeting kicked off the moment our arses touched the hard chairs, almost as if this was the cue for the grey-haired outgoing chairman to begin. What followed was not top-quality entertainment. He was only a few minutes into his speech, outlining the improvements that the previous committee had made to the hall, when my mind started to wander. His voice became a monotone backdrop to myriad thoughts about sea walks, jobs that needed doing around the house and whether the oil needed changing on the car.
I tuned in occasionally, just for long enough to learn that a three-phase electrical renovation was recommended, but most of the time I surrendered to my mind’s indiscriminate meanderings. It was like being back at school. No engagement. Oh, how I remembered that feeling that one should sit down, shut up, and listen. There was nothing to draw you in, or prick your interest, and so the creative mind used to rebel and play truant.
Are
The same pattern continued throughout the next forty minutes – that of learning a move, only to have it immediately switched to another. I watched the clock with the same foolish devotion of the bored factory worker. Time, of course, passes more slowly when monitored. The agony is prolonged.
What was most upsetting was that Sandra seemed to be utilising every dance movement known to man except the grapevine. My chance to shine was being denied. It wasn’t until the very last song, when the clock was reading 8.26, that Sandra suddenly called ‘Grapevine!’
Brilliant! At last! I thought, and I leapt into that move like a shot – with all the gusto and all the enthusiasm I could muster. I knew what I was doing at last.
There was a problem though.
I went left and the rest of the class went right.
‘Sorry!’ I blurted out, as I kicked the lady next to me quite hard on the shin.
She looked away, either lost in her dancing, or in her fury. I had dealt her quite a blow, but she did not even break stride. Adrenalin was carrying her through.
‘Well done, ladies! A great class!’ announced Sandra at 8.30 on the dot.
The gaggle of ladies applauded. The solitary man hung his head. He tried to seek out the lady he had kicked to make another attempt at an apology, but she was in a huddle with another group, no doubt bad-mouthing him.
The man went home alone, rubbing an elbow that was now hurting, following an earlier collision with a solid wall. He had a bath. He went to bed.
He wouldn’t be doing Zumba again in a hurry.
***
He was back at the village hall again all too soon, though, twenty-four hours not being enough time for the scars to have healed. The Zumba elbow was still sore too.
I had never been to an AGM before. I’d happily, and somewhat irresponsibly, lived in a world where the running of things was done by others. My life had been one in which I’d been happy to complain and criticise where necessary, whilst ensuring that I never became involved in any of the processes that had led to the decisions or policies that I disliked. That was about to change.
Fran and I got to the hall at 7.02 p.m. About twenty-five people were already seated in a semicircle in front of the table that presumably contained the vestiges of the outgoing committee. Village life seemed to be well-represented, from the grubby to the well-turned-out, but there were no children. Or young people. Surprisingly, they had chosen other activities ahead of sitting in a hall on a summer’s evening, listening to their elders discussing how it might best be managed. Even the youngsters who might have been interested could have a more stimulating experience playing the computer game ‘AGM’, in which the chairman can be zapped if he gets someone’s name wrong, or fails to point out the fire exits.
Heads turned to see who it was that had turned up two minutes late. We lived less than five minutes’ walk away, so not being on time wasn’t impressive, but both Fran and I are good at faffing. 1
The meeting kicked off the moment our arses touched the hard chairs, almost as if this was the cue for the grey-haired outgoing chairman to begin. What followed was not top-quality entertainment. He was only a few minutes into his speech, outlining the improvements that the previous committee had made to the hall, when my mind started to wander. His voice became a monotone backdrop to myriad thoughts about sea walks, jobs that needed doing around the house and whether the oil needed changing on the car.
I tuned in occasionally, just for long enough to learn that a three-phase electrical renovation was recommended, but most of the time I surrendered to my mind’s indiscriminate meanderings. It was like being back at school. No engagement. Oh, how I remembered that feeling that one should sit down, shut up, and listen. There was nothing to draw you in, or prick your interest, and so the creative mind used to rebel and play truant.
Are
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