April 15

The line, the line!!

From my position watering the pots outside on the terrace, yesterday, I looked through the glass door into the kitchen to see “The Writer”, in his slippers, doing what appeared to be an energetic and complicated dance routine. From behind, I could see him swing his right arm, as though playing a forehand tennis stroke, while his left arm remained rigid, held up in the air and grasping what looked like a stick used in Morris Dancing. His head was bent floorwards, and, as I watched, he performed what I took to be a reverse Fleckeryll, after which, with dainty, cat-like steps, he glided sideways and began the sequence again, moving swiftly round the kitchen with each new flurry of steps. Though I strained my ears, I could hear no music but I could hear him repeating what I thought were the words,”Damn Line. Damn Line”.

Now, my husband would be the first to admit that he’s not a natural dancer. I love to dance but, after many years of marriage, I have grasped that conditions have to be exactly right before I can inveigle him onto the floor. He has to be drunk, there have to be at least thirty other people on the floor, preferably also drunk, the music has to be recognisable, i.e from the 60s, plus he has to be just sober enough to reminisce about “smooching” with girlfriends rendered willing partners by a glass of Babycham.

But here he was, dancing, alone, and, I assumed, sober, since it was 8:30 in the morning. Puzzled by this personality change, but loath to disturb it, I stepped into the kitchen and heard again the refrain, “Damn Line”, this time followed by a violent bout of swearing.

“What’s wrong?”, I asked.

“It’s this damn line, I can’t get rid of it”.

At this point, I realised that what his upright hand was holding, was not a Morris stick, but our long-handled dustpan and the wide forehand movements had been his sweeping of the brush towards the pan. However, nothing accounted fo the neat Scottish Dance steps.

His explanation was accompanied by more swearing and a demonstration of the fact that, however carefully he swept the floor, there remained, after he had swept the debris into the pan, a stubborn grey line of dirt he then had to chase across the kitchen, hoping that, by sneaking quickly up on it, as though on a fly he was going to bash with a newspaper, he would fool it, this time, into entering the pan, leaving not a trace behind.

I watched for a while, wondering whether there was any way I could harness this new enthusiasm in the service of our getting to dance more frequently.

Then I just got bored and hoovered up The Line.

I could swear he was disappointed.