And on the palm of her hand is a blister
Nov. 30th, 2003 06:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ventaRegular readers might have noticed that I haven't been off to a Boojum practice for a while. Boojum is the meeting-up-occasionally rapper team I belong to: practices are usually characterised by enormous amounts of dancing, and drinking our own body weight in red wine. Team members take it in turns to play host, and this weekend it was down in Canterbury, at Trefor and Rhiannon's house. Despite the M4's best efforts to thwart me, I made it over to Sue's in Crowthorne on Friday night to hitch a lift down with her.
We were first in, so we sat and drank wine while people rolled in from the other end of the country. Once all were assembled, a fantastic supper emerged: lots of small munchable Mediterranean things, and breadsticks and dips and so on... And not a sweet thing in sight. My kind of feast :) And we ate and drank and nattered until someone pointed out it was half two...
Saturday morning was plagued by all the questions that have to be sorted out before our practices: Can we remember what we were doing last time ? Do we have someone to cover each position in the dance ? Are all the people who'll be at the next booking present ? And, of course, the perennial favourite: Is Liz out of bed yet ?
Actually, by the time the last question got asked, the answer was "yes". This is unprecedented.
Round the corner to a church hall for half ten, and we started on a pretty intense practice, trying to sort out a new dance. Break for lunch, back to the house for bowls of spoon-eating soup, then back to the hall for another few hours' practice until five. By this time everyone had developed something of a thousand-yard-stare, and the less hardy cleared off for half an hour's snooze.
Trefor had been making yet another meal in our absence, so there was more food, more wine, and a quick change into costume to get into Canterbury by seven, when the first pub was expecting us. We were, admittedly, slightly late, because the railway line from London had eaten our musician and we had to fight to get him back. And then it's clear some space in the pub and off... and this is, of course, why we put the effort in the first place.
Last night, by rights, I should have been knackered and (see below) really not feeling all that well. Yet by the time we got to the Two Sawyers, which is a nice, old, dimly lit pub with a roaring fire, and reasonable beer (Pintwatch was a little disappointed to be charged £2.20 for Greene King IPA outside London), everything had clicked into place. We had just enough space, on a lovely wooden floor, and a musician who can welly tunes out of a melodeon like you wouldn't believe; and sometimes, you just know you're dancing at your best, and there's no feeling like it. And then there's a pub full of people, who're cheering and clapping along with the music, and yell for more when we finish.
Audiences are strange animals. Bear in mind that, in most cases, we're dancing in ordinary pubs, full of normal people out on a Saturday night. Most of them have never heard of rapper, and have no clear idea why this bunch of random people, dressed funny, have just turned up in their pubs. Occasionally, people are openly rude to us - and, if they were out for a quiet night, I guess I can't blame them. Sometimes, like in Bar Ha-Ha last night, people watch half heartedly, applaud politely, or look slightly embarassed. Then there's the times when everyone just seems to get caught up in it. When the pubful of teenagers stands completely captivated, and demands an encore. When you suddenly realise the the studiedly indifferent indie kids in the corner are actually peeping round the pillars to watch. When people spontaneously buy us rounds. And you never quite know what it was that made the difference this time.
The last pub we danced at (the White Hart) was one we visited last time we went to Canterbury, and who'd requested that we go back. Pintwatch was delighted to find it was a Shepherd Neame pub with four beers on handpump (and walls covered with the entertaining, if occasionally veering on the offensive, Spitfire adverts) - though it was still disappointed at the £2.20. The special Autumn beer, Late Red, which Pintwatch "tested" when the pint's owner wasn't looking, proved to be sadly taste-free, but the Master Brew was remarkably drinkable.
"Pray silence, this is proper British culture, none of your European rubbish" - the landlord introduced us, and off we went... And that's all we are: a bunch of people carrying on an English tradition, and having a hell of a lot of fun doing it.
Somewhat disconcerting, though, to hear the cry "Time to go home, ladies and gentlemen, with the exception of the dancers" - we were still tucking into our free drinks. Mind you, by that time we'd lapsed into Fred Jordan[*] impressions, and frankly I'd have thrown us out.
Home again, and I slunk off to bed, thus missing out on yet more wine. And I was still the last up this morning (despite popping up at 9.30) for the big breakfast... and a bit more practising. And that's all folks, until we meet up in January at a festival where we're booked.
[*] Fred Jordan was a folk singer from Shropshire who died a few years back, at the age of about 340.
Of course, the real problem with this weekend was the cats. No one had mentioned to me - why would they? - that Trefor fosters feral cats for the local Cats Protection League. If I'd known, I'd have taken my antihistamines with me.
Even though the cats are (obviously) mostly outdoor animals, they occasionally come in. I was never closer to one than about 10ft, but somehow they got me, and I've spent the whole weekend wheezing, sneezing, and generally feeling as if my lungs have been gently clubbed with a chainsaw. I actually thought it must be the onset of 'flu, but back in my own house I haven't sneezed in a while.
And I don't understand it. At home, my parents' cat doesn't seem to affect me that much. So long as I don't play with her, just being in the same room isn't a problem.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lathany and bateleur's cat, a long haired fluffball, has never had such a bad effect on me, even when we've been sharing a sofa. Angi's cats, despite the fact she claims they are incredibly moulty and leave hair everywhere, have never given me problems when I'm in her house.
So, why are some cats more allergen-y than others ? What makes the difference ?
This week's designated hero is Trefor, for putting up with randoms from his wife's rapper team taking over his house, and producing wonderful meals with staggering regularity
We were first in, so we sat and drank wine while people rolled in from the other end of the country. Once all were assembled, a fantastic supper emerged: lots of small munchable Mediterranean things, and breadsticks and dips and so on... And not a sweet thing in sight. My kind of feast :) And we ate and drank and nattered until someone pointed out it was half two...
Saturday morning was plagued by all the questions that have to be sorted out before our practices: Can we remember what we were doing last time ? Do we have someone to cover each position in the dance ? Are all the people who'll be at the next booking present ? And, of course, the perennial favourite: Is Liz out of bed yet ?
Actually, by the time the last question got asked, the answer was "yes". This is unprecedented.
Round the corner to a church hall for half ten, and we started on a pretty intense practice, trying to sort out a new dance. Break for lunch, back to the house for bowls of spoon-eating soup, then back to the hall for another few hours' practice until five. By this time everyone had developed something of a thousand-yard-stare, and the less hardy cleared off for half an hour's snooze.
Trefor had been making yet another meal in our absence, so there was more food, more wine, and a quick change into costume to get into Canterbury by seven, when the first pub was expecting us. We were, admittedly, slightly late, because the railway line from London had eaten our musician and we had to fight to get him back. And then it's clear some space in the pub and off... and this is, of course, why we put the effort in the first place.
Last night, by rights, I should have been knackered and (see below) really not feeling all that well. Yet by the time we got to the Two Sawyers, which is a nice, old, dimly lit pub with a roaring fire, and reasonable beer (Pintwatch was a little disappointed to be charged £2.20 for Greene King IPA outside London), everything had clicked into place. We had just enough space, on a lovely wooden floor, and a musician who can welly tunes out of a melodeon like you wouldn't believe; and sometimes, you just know you're dancing at your best, and there's no feeling like it. And then there's a pub full of people, who're cheering and clapping along with the music, and yell for more when we finish.
Audiences are strange animals. Bear in mind that, in most cases, we're dancing in ordinary pubs, full of normal people out on a Saturday night. Most of them have never heard of rapper, and have no clear idea why this bunch of random people, dressed funny, have just turned up in their pubs. Occasionally, people are openly rude to us - and, if they were out for a quiet night, I guess I can't blame them. Sometimes, like in Bar Ha-Ha last night, people watch half heartedly, applaud politely, or look slightly embarassed. Then there's the times when everyone just seems to get caught up in it. When the pubful of teenagers stands completely captivated, and demands an encore. When you suddenly realise the the studiedly indifferent indie kids in the corner are actually peeping round the pillars to watch. When people spontaneously buy us rounds. And you never quite know what it was that made the difference this time.
The last pub we danced at (the White Hart) was one we visited last time we went to Canterbury, and who'd requested that we go back. Pintwatch was delighted to find it was a Shepherd Neame pub with four beers on handpump (and walls covered with the entertaining, if occasionally veering on the offensive, Spitfire adverts) - though it was still disappointed at the £2.20. The special Autumn beer, Late Red, which Pintwatch "tested" when the pint's owner wasn't looking, proved to be sadly taste-free, but the Master Brew was remarkably drinkable.
"Pray silence, this is proper British culture, none of your European rubbish" - the landlord introduced us, and off we went... And that's all we are: a bunch of people carrying on an English tradition, and having a hell of a lot of fun doing it.
Somewhat disconcerting, though, to hear the cry "Time to go home, ladies and gentlemen, with the exception of the dancers" - we were still tucking into our free drinks. Mind you, by that time we'd lapsed into Fred Jordan[*] impressions, and frankly I'd have thrown us out.
Home again, and I slunk off to bed, thus missing out on yet more wine. And I was still the last up this morning (despite popping up at 9.30) for the big breakfast... and a bit more practising. And that's all folks, until we meet up in January at a festival where we're booked.
[*] Fred Jordan was a folk singer from Shropshire who died a few years back, at the age of about 340.
Of course, the real problem with this weekend was the cats. No one had mentioned to me - why would they? - that Trefor fosters feral cats for the local Cats Protection League. If I'd known, I'd have taken my antihistamines with me.
Even though the cats are (obviously) mostly outdoor animals, they occasionally come in. I was never closer to one than about 10ft, but somehow they got me, and I've spent the whole weekend wheezing, sneezing, and generally feeling as if my lungs have been gently clubbed with a chainsaw. I actually thought it must be the onset of 'flu, but back in my own house I haven't sneezed in a while.
And I don't understand it. At home, my parents' cat doesn't seem to affect me that much. So long as I don't play with her, just being in the same room isn't a problem.
lathany and bateleur's cat, a long haired fluffball, has never had such a bad effect on me, even when we've been sharing a sofa. Angi's cats, despite the fact she claims they are incredibly moulty and leave hair everywhere, have never given me problems when I'm in her house.So, why are some cats more allergen-y than others ? What makes the difference ?
This week's designated hero is Trefor, for putting up with randoms from his wife's rapper team taking over his house, and producing wonderful meals with staggering regularity
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-11-30 10:42 am (UTC)Anyway, what you need are GM cats.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-30 10:48 am (UTC)Not personally, as none of us live in London. Thrales Rapper (based in Southwark) tour round pubs in Soho reasonably often. Hmm.. and Hammersmith Morris were threatening to take us out in London, we should prod them about that...
If you want to undertake to find us a bunch of wooden-floored, friendly pubs in the area... :)
Anyway, what you need are GM cats.
Blimey. That's strangely terrifying.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-30 01:28 pm (UTC)Btw 'The Hammersmith Morris' sound more like a paramilitary organisation than a bunch of folk dancers ; )
no subject
Date: 2003-11-30 03:14 pm (UTC)Aaargh. Cobbles bad. Cobbles quick way to broken ankles :) Stone flags or even concrete are doable, though not nearly as pleasant as a nice wooden floor. Though vaguely folky-friendly pubs are always a good thing. And we really do need surprisingly little space.
Btw 'The Hammersmith Morris' sound more like a paramilitary organisation than a bunch of folk dancers ; )
Ah... you've met them :)
no subject
Date: 2003-12-01 02:57 am (UTC)Anyway, what you need are GM cats.
Or Sellotape.
no subject
Date: 2003-11-30 01:21 pm (UTC)I wouldn't tell the mini mammoth that something out-allergicked her - she'd feel she had to compete.