Hirsuit Men

Good old Marks and Spencers. I have bought a book titled ‘Weekend courses in England’.

Only £6 which means 6 points towards my quarterly M&S vouchers for a new 'pack of 5' granny shaped knick knocks.

So I have been reading my new directory and have found a course that I will enrol on in the new year.

‘Harp playing in rural Hertfordshire’

It captured my attention due to the lovely picture of a rather ginger hirsute male playing with his harp. He looked familiar and so I scrutinised his photograph a little further and, lo and behold, I recognised him from my line dance extravaganza last Saturday night.

Sometimes I do wonder what motivates my friends.

I was told that we were off to a barn dance.

That afternoon I rummaged through my dressing up box, a must for every finchleyite, and wore a Stetson, plaits, pretendy freckles, checked shirt, cowboy boots and carried a lassoo through the streets of Primrose Hill.

But guess wot it wasn't a barn dance but t'was folkdancing, where all were wearing drindle skirts and had fat bellies – I have the latter, so felt comfortable, but I entered into the room with the hay in my hair thinking that I would end up in a ‘doh sah doh’ with a North London Cowboy, at midnight.

I have never seen a group of people, in one area, so in need of a ‘Trinny and Suzannah’. Fashion aside, I took part and didn’t take it too seriously much to the annoyance of the ‘professional drindlettes’.

I then had to dance, arm in arm, with Mr Death. He looked like he was about to take his last breath but if I squinted he did look a little like Kirk Douglas in 20 years time, in a George from Asda ensemble.

So that was my Saturday night.

I ended up in the obligatory coffee house later on that evening and had a mint tea instead of the usual caffeine blah blah.