Skating on Thin Ice

Reading this illuminating article (I use the word "article" advisedly) this evening, I reflect on the Beaker Roller-blade Dance competition we held earlier, and reflect the author is so right. Skating really is a reflection of  the godly order of creation.

I had been wondering how to get a partner for the competition, earlier.  I know my readers see me as a sage of a certain age, dispensing wisdom and godly scorn. But there was a time when I was the belle of the Dunstable Leisure Centre Saturday morning roller disco set. Actually,  probably second belle - there was a girl called Heather who had nicer legs, and was rumoured to wear jodhpurs in her spare time.  Still, the point is that going round a badminton court on wheels while Donna Summer croons " I Feel Love" is not unknown to me, and I wanted to feel the thrill of rubber on parquet again.

Now,  Burton Dasset is not my ideal skating partner. But he does have all the advantages of the male sex. That is; he's convinced of his own masculinity, and he's gullible. And, if you're a woman of middle age needing some prat to pick you up while scooting round the Moot House on wheels, they're pretty much prerequisites. So he had to do.

In the event, it was worse than that. Burton naturally thought that my choosing him was a sign of sexual attraction rather than desperation, sure.  But we must not forget that the pasty-faced little son of a COBOL programmer is basically, deep down, a clerical worker.

And so it was that I ended up having to pick the annoying little beggar up and carry  him around for the duration of the "Bolero". I mean, obviously we won. After all, I'm the Archdruid. Nobody was going to give me less than a 6. And that just about made up for having the clammy, lustful little get clutching my waist.

You know,  it's left me realising that Roller-blade-dancing is a lot like the gender relationships we find in the Bible. You get a bunch of strong but unconventional women - Tamar, Rahab, Ruth,  Mary.  And a bunch of useless blokes who go around preening and causing bloodshed - David,  Judah, Solomon. Somewhere down the line, through God's assistance, finally we find one man who can actually do something right. But we know who's done the hard work up to that point.

So Burton can preen all he likes, with his bunch of flowers and his gilt tiara.  And he can enjoy the fact that, just for thirty seconds, I had to hold his leg to get him up in the air.  But don't forget who's taking the other half of the prize home. Oh yeah.  That Laphroaig bottle looks lovely on the mantlepiece. And its contents taste even better.