Kitchen Dancing

Or, how to embarrass the hell out of your better half. I decided a while back that life was too short to be hung up about dancing. You know the sort of thing, shuffling back and forth on the dance floor, looking like you’re waiting to be embalmed. What’s the bloody point in that? If you’re going to dance: dance! Enjoy it. If you don’t enjoy it, don’t do it!

Have you ever been in the kitchen, cooking away with some jolly tunes on the stereogram, and decided, ‘Hell, no one’s watching...’ and had a bit of a dance? Is it the aforementioned shuffle, or is it a wild flailing about of limbs with attached cheesy grin? Sort of like Saturday Night Fever meets Playschool. If not, what the hell have you been doing with your life? Get into that kitchen now, put on some Barenaked Ladies and boogie.

This is Kitchen Dancing in its purest form.

Then there’s public dancing. We don’t go to a lot of dancy things, but when we do, I like to make the effort and pretend I’m still in the kitchen. This embarrasses the hell out of She Who Must Not Be Looked At By Strange People When She Is Dancing. But when we’re in the house, she too succumbs to the heady delights of the kitchen cha-cha. Bit by bit I’m desensitising her to the crushing shame of being on the dance floor with a flailing about lunatic. My lofty goal is that one day she too will ‘get her freak on’ kitchen-stylie. Then, one by one, other couples will be inspired by our example to make tits out of themselves, and they will do the food fandango too.

Eventually you won’t be able to turn on a radio in public without the world dissolving into a messy, uncoordinated Busby Berkeley number. And world dominion will be MINE!!! Bwahahahahahaha...