A note to the gentlemen who read this column: never
criticize your wife’s dress-up clothes. She’ll never forgive you.
You may think you are helping by hinting subtly that
something is too tight here or there, but your attempts at subtlety and
gentleness will have the same effect as throwing a kettle of boiling oil on
her. You may just as well be telling her: “I want to really, really make you
hate me for the next two months.” Take heed, O you with wife…or girlfriend.
Hell hath no fury.
This is a mistake I made recently, moments before my wife
and I left to go Argentine Tango dancing in Penzance.
Yes, in our old life in the New World, before we began our new life here in the
Old World, Argentine Tango was a huge part of
our lives. And we could say that Tango has been good to us. It was at an
Argentine Tango class that my wife-to-be and I met. She was the student. I was
the teacher.
It’s true. I teach the Tango. And, you might not know it, but
Cornwall has a
small, dedicated community of Argentine Tango dancers, which my wife and I were
delighted to discover when we arrived here. Classes, however, are scarce, and
having arrived here two months ago and still not having sold any paintings or been
hired to teach art, I have decided to hold Tango classes. In St. Ives.
People’s faces really light up when they know you dance the
Argentine Tango, with admiration or amusement, I’m not sure, but mainly because
they’ve seen it danced by young, gorgeous (and child-less) stars on shows like Strictly Come Dancing. This always makes
Tango-teachers feel as though they ought to be teaching acrobatic tv steps, which cause one to fall. With
one’s partner. In front of other people. Not that this has happened to this
one. Ahem. But for now, I’ll be teaching less flamboyant steps, crossing my
fingers, and hoping for a good turnout.
To be continued.
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