Open Writing

What marvellous machines we humans are! It takes at least three days of concentrated sea-air and sunshine to erode the ugly scars of daily routine. But as soon as one returns home, a simple click of the back door Yale and Voila!

The salubrious holiday buoyancy, that kept you floating through all mundane adversity for those gloriously happy fun-filled days, is swiftly and truly punctured.

A few moments’ careful reflection of the previous week’s mail and you realise that the bank balance is a shade deflated too.

But isn’t it great to spend money like there is no tomorrow for once in your dull little life Indulging in life’s occasional luxuries, fish and chips for supper.

Life on the beach is the usual round of whining and dining, sometimes the drama can be quite hair-raising! Tiny-tots tossing precariously from wave to wave in pathetic plastic dinghies, while dad dons his sunglasses for a spot of bikini watching.

I wish these death-traps could be confined to the safety of the inland paddling pools, although the bikinis present a serious threat to some of us.

One of the most popular beach games is ‘find the children.’ After an hour’s anguish for one mother, her prodigal eventually returned clutching a precious bucket of sea water. They tearfully embraced as little sister happily poured the priceless liquid into the hole he had just excavated, smiling to herself as she watched it disappear.

Another irate woman stormed and raved across our picnic at a little boy in front of us as he sat peacefully watching the yachts glide across the horizon.

‘Where the curse, curse, have you been? The police are searching everywhere and your mother is breaking her heart,’ as she greeted him, with a stunning belt to his right ear. What a blessed relief to all of us when he eventually started to cry and she could proceed to kiss him better.

During our holiday, we discovered a strange new world. We followed the trail of sequins and diamante and entered the ‘Saunter’ and ‘Gavotte’ land of the dedicated old-time dance competitors.

What a magnificent sight! A beautiful oak-lined ballroom hung with delicately coloured lanterns. Nostalgic strains of ‘Goodnight Vienna’ setting our corns on fire with desire, tantalising flowery odours titillating our sunburned nostrils as the highly lacquered coiffures fluttered past (and some of the ladies smelled rather nice too.)

I don’t know which was the most appetising the savoury smell drifting in from the adjoining restaurant or the frothy creations worn by the competitors. There must have been miles of tulle gathered into each misty cloud of candy floss all in delicious mouth-watering shades, peppermint greens, sugary pinks and ice-cool lemons. When I realised it was not Danny la Rue, I paid court to one glittering blonde with a chandelier dangling from each ear. She confessed these magnificent dresses do often get in the way. During the passion of a tango they tend to bunch up between you and your partner and spoil the togetherness somewhat, probably evoking the dreaded ‘this is bigger than both of us’ feeling.

Before the competition there is a big cover-up operation. Ladies wear floaty nylon sleeveless over dresses and the men have little silk hankies draped over their stiff collars, only unveiling their vast splendour at the last minute. Once the numbers are pinned to their backs the men swirl their ladies into position on the polished parquet and they are off!

The excitement begins. ‘What number?’ a voice incites over the microphone and most of us shout back in frenzy. A few nights later and the rest of the family cynics succumb to this ‘plebeian’ pastime. Judging by the rigid upper backs extra points must be gained by maintaining a correct aristo- cratic position throughout. This must become a little wearing after a while.

What starts out as a spontaneous smile often ends in a frightening leer.

No reflection on my dancing partner, but I never realised before what graceful movers men can be. I thought they looked so captivating as they waltzed by, a white-gloved hand resting elegantly on the hip, whatever my husband said. And I loved their expressive faces, especially the pencil moustache who had obviously trapped a part of his anatomy quite recently and still suffered inwardly.
Hoping to join in at least one dance during the evening I persuaded (well threatened) my spouse to attend an afternoon learners’ session.

I don’t know whether it was the dehydrating choice of music – selections from ‘The Desert Song’ or the throat constricting jerks of the tango, but after two or three attempts my reluctant partner was soon pointing his pretty little calluses in the direction of the ‘hops’ at the other side of the bar. Mind you, this is a pleasure that has to be taken seriously and requires the utmost dedication.

One sweet couple won the ‘Over Fifties’ cup, and danced into the final six of the open four-dance competition all on the same night! They also joined in the general dancing in between. Couples twice my age can’t get on the dance floor quick enough. Instead of clearing the floor for the competitions, they are all gaily applauding for more, their stamina is exhausting to behold. Judging from their carefree expressions, they enjoy every fatiguing minute!

They certainly kept us entertained. I shall be whistling and waltzing through the next few weeks anyway, without a partner naturally.