Clowning Around

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CC Image courtesy of tim ellis on Flickr

I said Sebastian was dashing, and he is.  He also has, in his own words, very big hair.  Lethal combination.  And he dances in the street.

We find ourselves in the same ball party.  He’s one of those people who, when they’re around, I find myself trying not to try too hard to get their attention – or say anything stupid.  As such, most of the time I’m mute (see Matthew), and when I do speak, what I say is invariably stupid or rude, or both (see Nick).  After a few drinks, apologising for the aforementioned rudeness seems like a good idea.  I haven’t planned what I’m going to say, but the gist of it would be, sorry, I’m only like this because I think you’re beautiful and charming and you have big hair.  Or just, you have big hair.

I’m chatting to a girl at the bar.  She breaks off to order a drink.

‘Excuse me one sec,’ I say.

I’ve just seen Sebastian come in.  After our pavement boogie earlier in the evening, we have to have a dance.

‘Shall we?’ I say.

‘Of course.’

He takes my hand, turns me between the tables and leads me to the floor.  His style is distinctive, showy, slightly clownish, lots of flourishes and flicks.

I take the rare opportunity of being face-to-face with the guy to say, ‘I can explain…’

‘Explain what?’

He spins me into a drop.

‘The fact I’m so…’

Another spin.

‘Amusing?’ he says. ‘Funny?’


The dance continues.  My speech fortunately does not.  I’m too busy laughing and generally having a good time.  With the end of the track, he says,


We work well on the dancefloor, better than at the dinner table, where I tease and mock relentlessly.

‘It’s tiring,’ he said earlier.  It was the kind of candour which only comes with drunkenness.

I blushed.  ‘Sorry.’  And turned away.

CC Image courtesy of steenslag on Flickr

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