The 12 Days of Christmas Party is over and whilst my good friends are rushing around trying to fill their comments in for the draw I am reflecting whilst looking forwards, starting a New Year with challenges. The first is the weather, after the raw cold of last year it is unseasonally mild and very windy, the catkins are fully out. I’ve just checked back to last year’s photos and it was 25th January last year when I was taking similar pictures. Whilst it’s great not to have the ice underfoot for learning to run, the very stiff winds have put me off cycling. Hopefully I will do much more on the bike next week.
Tomorrow I will announce who has won the mystery prize in the #12DCP, which then gives me a week to try and write my Ghost story. The lovely @Jaydubblah has alread written hers and you can read it here.
Today I attended my second local writing group, I’m really enjoying these sessions, the current focus is on dialogue and dialect. We have been discussing the extent to which the text should accurately reflect dialects or just indicate them. We had been set homework, which was to write a piece where the dialogue tells what is going on. I decided to take this both literally and figuratively with a bit of an Argentine Tango, see what you think: -
The tablecloth was tied around her waist to indicate a skirt and his shirt was open to the bottom button.“Lean in to me, your hip should make contact yust here on my pocket,” he said. “Our noses should be touching – and look at me.” She looked. Garlic sweat poured from his forehead.
“What next? I’ve got bloody cramp from these heels.”
“Retht your left leg on the back of your right leg; now as my legs cross I will drag you to the side. Good, now we rise; your weight transfers back and your right leg is free. Whip your knee up into my hand and when you drop it back plathe your foot between my feet like a thandwidge. Now giro; turn.”
“Did you have to pinch my knee then?” she winced at her own reflection in the full height mirror, flushed skin and a frizz of hair. The village hall smelt of damp, there were lumps of soil scattered by the football team’s boots earlier in the day. She wondered why she had agreed to this ‘treat’ from her boyfriend, who would now be propping up the bar at the Parrot and Punchbowl.
“Lean back, your hair should nearly sweep the floor.”
“It’s covered in crap,” she sighed.
“Just do it, trust me; I’ll support your weight. As you swing come up and look at me again; fix my eyes.”
“Less of the weight, cheeky. Christ that hurts,” she pulled herself up to her full height and attempted to stretch out her spine.
“Then we walk, figure of eight ocho, at the end, rest, lean and quick flick or your leg around mine, gancho. Perfetto, then I push you back upright, I stroke your face then lock my eyes on yours. Now back away. Thrusting your hands down to the floor like I shewed you. OK, I put the music on now.” He pressed the iPod in the huge boombox and started the track.
“Ready?” he breathed.
“So; lean on my pocket, look at my eyes.” She looked, they were deep and dark, with a glint where the light reflected on his contact lens. He fixed on her eyes, their noses almost touched.
“Oh. My. God. You’re strong.”
“Good, you should trust me, fix my eyes. Ok rethst your left leg, I drag, rise; Knee up, I grip. Thandwich feet, giro, lean back, I pull you up towards me. Ocho, then rest, lean and now – gancho, flick your leg around mine.”
“Like this?” she asked.
“Si, yes, but firmer, then away quickly like it was too hot not slow like a dodman. Now, upright, I stroke your face, lock your eyes, you back away thrusting your hands towards the floor.”
The damp of the hall was melting away, the music suffused her sinews, the air was slowly being exchanged with the atmosphere of Plazzo Dorrego, Buenos Aires.
She took a swig from her water bottle and looked across the room at him. The music restarted and he put out his hand, as she moved towards him, she murmored.
“I lean on your pocket; just here, our noses touch, your eyes are dark, deep chocolate. I retsht my left leg, you drag me, I rise; knee up, you grip. Giro, I lean back, you pull me up, you are strong, I trust you. I love your eyes. Ocho, then rest, lean and gancho, I flick my leg round yours, it’s hot, too hot. You push me upright, you stoke my face, I like it when you stroke my face, your hands are cool. I lock your eyes, you lock my eyes. I’m supposed to back away, I can’t back away, I am locked.” She choked briefly on her words, her voice drying. He flashed a mischievous grin.
The hall door swung open, Clive staggered in.
“You all right then? How’s it going Fred me old fox?”
“Pretty good bah, she’s probably in love with me by now!”
“Fred? What ‘appened to Alfredo?” she asked colouring as she did so.
“Ah, that’s my professional name. Same time next week?”