Dancing in the Patio
Inside, they're rockin'
“What do old people do at parties?” That’s an idle question
My Teenage Self would ask occasionally, in between doing more interesting
things such as spraypainting his bedroom slippers silver and flicking his
fingernail dirt at the settee.
I’m in a position to report back to MTS. I was away at the
Kirwood sister’s place in a Gloucestershire village over the weekend where we
went to a do with friends down her lane.
Here’s my answer. “When they go to parties older people put
on 60s pop music, drink beer, muck about and talk rubbish. Sound familiar?”
We also talked about holidays in Portugal and Mrs K’s choir
singing. “Boring and trivial!!!” snorted MTS. “You didn’t talk about anything
really important.” “Such as?” “Such as…such as… such as whether John Lennon
wears contact lenses. Or did Derek Abbot at the end of the street really do 69
with a girl?”
“How about this?” I replied, “We also talked about the visit
of Rowan Williams to the village the next day.” “HUH! I bet you didn’t roll a
single joint. I bet no one puked over the roses. I bet you didn’t play Jimi
Hendrix so loud that the neighbours called the police!”
“That’s because we were the neighbours. And what’s so bad
about puking over roses? It fertilises them. Though I suppose it depends what’s
in the puke.”
“Huh,” he snorted again, “A bunch of nobodies.” “One of them was a District Councillor,” I
answered hesitantly. “Traitor! Mixing with authority figures!” screamed MTS
.
.
I explained how we actually talked to each other, were still
able to remember most of it the day after and how no one at any stage hunched
over a mobile phone or glued themselves to their ipod.
He’d be OK about that. He hasn’t a clue about those things
either.
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