The Christmas dance, the gym transformed –
red lights, a glitter-ball;
the wall bars screened, the horse removed,
best dresses for us all.
School uniforms were packed away,
and we’d been drilled to dance
in couples, clasped, and two by two,
with nothing left to chance.
Gay Gordons, the Veleta, who
forgets the circling spell
of boy and girl – and, worse, to sit
un-partnered, mute, in hell.
But we were being ‘grown-up’ and so
we learned to smile at fate.
I’ve hated dancing since those days.
Default: the wallflower state.
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