Three Left Feet

I should be re-writing my one man show, but instead, I'm tinkering with my blog.

Last night, the missus and I went to Bar Cuba in Kensington, for a salsa lesson.

Maybe I've been working too hard, or maybe it was the pound of yaki udon I'd wolfed down at Wagamama's two minutes before, but I danced like a Sumo wrestler in syrup.

Now, I'm not exactly Wayne Sleep at the best of times (although I do have curly hair and a chiselled arse), but this was a shocking performanc even by my own low standards. I couldn't work out which way to turn the missus, which way my hips were jointed, or even what number comes after four. We bashed elbows, knocked knees, and grimaced at each other. I gripped Clare's hands so tightly that I left marks in them. In short, every ounce of fun was sucked out of the evening.

It wasn't helped by the fact that one of the other guys in the club a) danced really well and b) smelled so pungent that the only place to breathe uncontaminated air was right underneath the air-con outlet, but really, I'm getting side-tracked.

I think I need private lessons, or surgery, or both.



By the way, today's caption competition: the most innovative answer for the picture above will win... well... my respect.