This is so weird.
Right, ok. Three days ago, one of the Piranhas approached me. Actually, as far as Piranhas go, I shouldn't just refer to this one as 'one of'. He's kind of at the head of the pack. School. Whatever. He leads the school of Piranhas as they make their way over to get a snack at the Local Little Fish Elementary School.
So, anyway, Big Scary Piranha comes over to my desk the other day, and leans in really close, almost whispering, so that the others in my department wouldn't hear.
"You know, I know you like karaoke and..."
OK! STOP RIGHT THERE! Let me just explain before continuing. No, I'm not a weird karaoke person. In a very irregular and sporadic nature, I've been to regular pubs that feature a karaoke evening, but I'm not a Karaoke Person. Out of respect for the ears of the fellow patrons, I don't sing. (For the record, I'll be the first to admit that when I warble in the shower, the soap tends to melt, and the water turns itself off as some kind of environmental protest.) Last May, just for something different, my sister and I rented a machine, invited friends and family, and hosted a karaoke birthday party. But that's it! What's that movie called? Duets? Don't Gwynnie and Huey Lewis go around chasing some kind of Karaoke American Dream in that one? Yeah, well, that's not me, people! However, in as much as Big Scary Piranha is known to have some dealings in the karaoke underworld, I may have asked him where to rent a machine, so I can understand where he got the idea that I love clutching the mike. (I'll clutch at a guy named Mike, but that's as close as it comes.)
Right. Moving on.
"I know you like karaoke, and I'm having some major A-list clients and some selected consultants all of which you don't like, over to my palatial estate of a house on Thursday for cocktails and karaoke. I'd like it if you came."
Oh all right. Italics were added for flavour.
After I picked up the eyeballs that had unexpectedly dropped out of my head, I managed to utter some gracious words of acceptance. And now...
Today is Thursday. Blimey. How and why, people? Those are the questions I have to ask. How. And Why. Big Scary Piranha barely notices my existence on a good day. When he does, it's usually because he's chewing me out for something that didn't go his way, and I have to play the placate game. And now he invites me to sing at his house?! Something is afoot, my friends. He's either decided that my herefore-unnoticed charm and wit are a definite addition to his life and his soirees, or I'm being set up to get served alongside the canapés
I'll let you know.
* * *
In other unrelated news... I've not fed my vanity online in a while, so here's the latest.
I was listening to a random mix of Squeeze, Elvis and Paul Anka last night as I went about my doings. Folding here, sorting there, flipping through pictures here, generally wasting time there. Anyway, as is my practice, when the music is on, I can't help but shake my groove thang a little. Now, regardless of the fact that I've learned how to cha-cha, tango and swing with the best of them, I've never found that I could just shake it with all the ease in the world. I love to get out on the dance floor and boogie, but I've never fancied that I look terrifically good doing it. I mean, it feeeels like I do, but then I glance in a mirror, and shudder because The Way It Feels Is Certainly Not The Way It Looks!
However... last night... I was doing my usual. Bouncing around the room along to the music, and I happened to bust a move in front of the mirror.
Whoa! Let's do that again!
So I did. And then I tried it again. Man, that looks different! Blimey, I look cool! So, you see, I always DID look good... you just couldn't tell, because the rhythm and grace was buried under an extra 37 lbs.!
Ha! Love the world sometimes.
And that's all for now, my friends. To my American readership, today is your Thanksgiving, so have a happy day and eat eat eat! Enjoy your turkey, and stuff as much mashed potatoes into your mouth as you possibly can.
A fabulous day to you all!
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