Traditional dancing is by far my favourite leisure activity. When I go to a ball or a Ceilidh my heart starts pounding. I feel like a Princess as every frog-like man I dance with briefly turns into a Prince, and, if only for an evening, everything seems right with the world.
I always make a point of being one of the first to arrive at these events, as it gives me an opportunity to assess the crowd at hand —and, of course, to operate a preselection of potential dance partners. When the band begins to play, I then dance the night away. I meet new people and talk to fellow dancers, I smile and laugh and imagine that one of them falls in love with me in a «happily ever after» sort of way. But reality hits when the music stops and I am usually left to walk alone back to my little home, back to my little life.
This time however, I feel a different vibe. And in my head pop the words to my favourite song: “Who knows… Could be… Could it be? Yes it could, something’s coming, something good…”
Anyway, the feeling grows. I’m avidly looking through the crowd and suddenly, here he is: the One. The exact model I used to write to Santa about as a kid. A lovely smile, non smoker, just slightly taller than me, just slightly older than me. Only one thing left to check. Like in a proper fairy tale, our eyes meet across the room. Drawn to each other like magnets, we quickly get closer and start dancing a lively waltz.
Finally, as the room swivels around us I muster all my courage to boldly ask the one question that will determined my future, our future: Tory or Labour?
Prompted by Simon Wood‘s 300 words story group (3d of February 2017 deadline)