I took Margaret Thatcher: The Iron Lady in too, as I haven't seen it and, as I teach a course on her and she's just died, it seemed like the right thing to do. I watched it as I did the marking and enjoyed it with the clever conceit that allowed it to be entirely from Thatcher's perspective - thus allowing some heavy distortion of key moments and facts - which I found, well, clever. Not sure how many people will have spotted that, but hey, whatcha going to do?
Anyway, I listened to some music after that whilst marking and, because I was alone, I cranked up the volume. When the track below came on I had an urge to move.
I should explain: when I was single, hell, before I had children, I used to do this all the time. I would get all caught up in the music that I played to help me work and then would suddenly launch myself off my seat into some mad escapade of jerky movement that must have looked like I was having a stroke or a fit or a seizure or something. I can't dance. I did ballroom dancing when I was younger than five and enjoyed the dance sessions at primary school more than the rest of my class. But each came to nothing and, like most things, I therefore did not do it much. My own dancing I rapidly took into my private world. I don't know precisely why I did that, but I can guess that my parents thought my dancing laughable, in much the same way they did my singing.
|Oh GOD yes. So much yes I can't contain the YES.|
At work, in the room, I was alone and unobserved. So I danced. With my eyes closed and my limbs doing whatever the hell they wanted to. And I realised how much I've missed it.
I want to dance again. In a dress. With heels. And a wig.
I want to dance again.