You can dance, you can jive…

So, what can I say about the last 24 hours that’s ethically on-limits for a blogger who is conscious of his wider responsibilities?

The bizarre saga, which has got the whole village talking, of the… er, nope, better not go there.

The poignant vignette, that I… ah, perhaps not.

What I really thought of… ooh, not exactly advisable.

The… pfft, not even hinting at that one.

Well, perhaps I can tell you a little bit about last night’s capers in the Memorial Hall. Our local indie/rock/soul/pop/folk covers band (some of them don’t like to use the f-word, but I definitely saw an accordion) played two sets, the second of which got most of us leaping around: particularly with the opener (“Losing My Religion”, complete with Actual Authentic Mandolin) and the encore (“Dancing Queen”. which I strongly suspect that the band would rather never play again, but then you under-estimate the Abba Love in this village at your peril). And if I didn’t actually recognise the song that was introduced as the “coolest” song in their set, then at least I could afford myself a rock-snobby “Pah” of patrician derision when discovering it was this one. Let it never be forgotten that “cool” is a relative concept.

As for the disco itself, “Shoddy Shaun” (whoops, did I say “Shonky” yesterday?) was indisposed, so a last minute stand-in DJ from the nearest market town did the honours. And what did he play? Abba, The Nolan Sisters, Diana Ross, Dolly Parton, Cyndi Lauper, Soft Cell, The Weather Girls… well, one had to wonder. Suddenly, my camptastic plinth mix – to be made available for download tomorrow evening – looked really rather butch.

As for today, we spent an agreeable couple of hours wandering round a local arts festival. The landscape painter at the top of our lane was exhibiting in a handsomely converted stable block, and since he also plays in the local indie/rock/whatsit band, a third and a fourth set were performed to the assembled seekers of truth and beauty.

Up the road in the market square, another band were performing classics from K’s formative years – including the first song on the aforementioned plinth mix – to a kindly crowd of sensibly jumpered, real-ale-quaffing, alternative-arts-scene ex-hippies and their extended families. For K, it was a glimpse at a lifestyle path that he might well have travelled, had I not materialised in his early twenties and summarily whisked him away from all of that. And perhaps – as I found myself wondering out loud, with a sudden twinge of guilt – he might have carved out a perfectly satisfactory niche for himself, secured in that parallel bubble?

Oh, but look at the time. Five minutes to midnight, and that “Publish Post” button is looming large, if my pledge is to be maintained. Well, let’s just leave it there!

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