I’ve just got back from playing for Ducklington, who were dancing with Owlswick in Finstock. Except that it wasn’t just us and Owlswick. Also present were some of the local group of belly dancers.
Now, you might be forgiven for thinking that belly dancers wouldn’t be such a bad thing. That they might even be somewhat delightful and alluring. Not these belly dancers. First, they are almost all over 50. Second, they really are belly dancers. And finally, in addition to their physical disadvantages, few of them have any talent for dancing anyway.
Now, don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing inherently wrong with being middle-aged (or, in some cases, older). It happens to us all in the end. There’s nothing wrong with a little middle-aged spread, either. In fact, since I stopped growing vertically, I’ve begun to expand a little horizontally, and I’m still pretty young. But please, if you are middle-aged and drooping, then for goodness’ sake have the decency not to go wobbling your copious belly in public.
Trouble was, most of us didn’t actually know they’d be there. I think Owlswick organised the event, and invited us along. If any of us (Duck’) were forewarned, the message certainly didn’t get along to me. So I had no chance to steel myself beforehand for the ordeal. Grrr.
Still, the beer was good: Adnams’s Broadside
I understand your dismay at the belly dancers. It is akin I suppose to rather large women wearing bright green spandex pants to work, revealing every curve and nodule of fat in their body.
Yeah. I’ve never understood why stout people would wear tight spandex. It can’t be that comfortable, and it quite obviously isn’t flattering. So why they do it remains a mystery.
Kudos on your use of a gentler term (stout) than I did.