Yet another episode

Subtitle: Ballroom Bliss

I imagine you’re dying to know what happened at the carnival dance-off. Well, I’m surprised you didn’t read it in the newspapers. We even managed the front page of the Didsbury Gazette, and that’s no mean feat, I can tell you. Having said that, the local WI were having a quiet week, so they were quite stuck for news.

Anyway, back to the matter in hand. Tarquin, who’d proved himself to be a man fairly light on his feet (though not in that way), and I were last minute entrants to the dance competition due to one couple dropping out at the last minute. I heard that there’d been some kind of freak patisserie-related injury, but you’ll be as relieved as I was to know that no permanent disfigurement resulted, though the stains proved to be more than a match for Persil.

The day of the competition dawned bright and clear, and I was up early to make sure that we looked our best, and besides the fake smiles needed time to set, otherwise they’d look a bit…well…fake.

Several hours later, we emerged from our lair in the manner of two slightly startled butterflies emerging from their respective cocoons, to a round of rapturous applause from the neighbours. We hadn’t intended to spread the word around about our entering the competition, but once Mrs Smith (from No 24) had spotted a particularly energetic bout of rumba-ing one evening at Mondo Bizarro, there was no stopping the rumour mill.

We arrived at the competition marquee in plenty of time, so we had more than enough time to assess the other dancers. I wasn’t sure how well we’d do, but Tarquin seemed quite confident. I suspect that was more due to the raisin bran we’d had for breakfast than our terpsichorean abilities however.

I was unable to really focus on the competition, as I was sure that the Sons of Thrower were ready to strike. Still, as the clock struck three, we all took our places and waited for battle to commence. The first dance was the Paso Doble, not our strongest dance, but we did pretty well, only clipping one of the other couples slightly. After that there was a Tango, a Merengue and a Boston Two-Step, during which, by a combination of a rather energetic overarm twirl/throughstep movement, we took out three spectators and the tea urn.

We managed, more through dumb luck than anything else, to make it through to the final. Sadly, the three dances weren’t our best ones at all. There was a Molvanian Waltz to start with, followed by the Crableigh Mambo (a local dance, not well known in the dancing world) and the Rumba. I knew this was the best of the three, which wasn’t saying much. However, after a brief rest period, and a glass or two of barley water, we were thrust back into the fray. You’ll be pleased to know that despite a slight ‘incident’ with one of the judges (he’ll be out of plaster in a couple of weeks) we just managed to squeeze into first place!

Once we’d comforted the losing couples, who both seemed dreadfully upset – the men were virtually inconsolable, though the women just shrugged it off – we prepared ourselves for the prizewinning ceremony.

Just as we were about to be presented with the Linoleum Blair Memorial Trophy, there was a sudden explosion from the WI Hospitality Tent. We ran headlong towards the area where the tent had been, only to be caught in a hail of sponge, jam and buttercream. Tarquin and I rushed forward, only to find that by some miracle, there was only one victim of this outrageous attack, and she’d be fine once she’d attacked her skirt with a Vanish stain removal stick.

We hunted around the site of the explosion, which appeared to have been centred around a large arrangement of profiteroles, some of which had travelled at least 50 feet with the force of the blast. I noticed a small scrap of white paper, which I secreted in my secret pocket (big knickers have their uses) to examine later. Tarquin also found a couple of clues, but seemed more intent on trying to eat his way through the evidence. Fortunately, before he could start on the ‘Yard of Éclair’ we were moved on by the police.

We trudged wearily back to the dance tent (sorry, marquee) and collected our trophy, not that we really appreciated it at the time. Of course, it was to come in very handy later on that week, but more on that next time….