Manky Monday

Dearest Darls,

Am feeling damnably groggy and stiff today, due to having fallen on my bum twice (!) during the dance recital yesterday. We were not dancing on our usual stage with non-slip floor covering, but instead were down on the tiled floor where the Old Folks' Club of my wee village was having its annual Christmas thé dansant (dinner and a show).

We knew about the problem floor, and got through two dances very carefully by performing with slightly subdued movements, and without mishap. However, during the French Can-Can, I threw myself into a handstand with great gusto and my hand slipped, sending me crashing inelegantly to the floor on my elbow and shoulder. In the scramble to regain my footing and catch up to the other dancers, my feet failed to gain purchase and I landed amusingly on my bum. So that was nice.

I carried on with a smile on my face like a real trouper, and limped to the dressing room to get some magic spray on my bruises and lots of sympathy from the other dancers. Yay! Body is intact, pride somewhat dented. I just hope the video of the event doesn't make it onto the internet too quickly!

My alarm clock rang offensively early this morning, jolting me out of a fabulous dream, where I was stuck in a lift with Sebastien Chabal. He turned out to be quite the philosopher and we were right in the middle of a deeply intellectual conversation at the time. Shit.

So I do hope you have an equally riveting tale to tell. Perhaps you were assaulted by a malevolent hoover during the weekend? Or locked in the laundry room with George Clooney, who just happened to be passing through the Village of the Dammned and was seized with an uncontrollable urge to wash his smalls? I want ALL the juicy details, mind!

Much cracky-bones love & hurty kisses,

Antipo

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