The headline in an email is as important as the first line in a conversation
I mentioned earlier this week that the infamous Toppled Bollard public house, seated proudly in the wild border country where Leicester and Northants collide with ancient Rutland, has of late been restored to some of its former glory and reopened as a dance club.
Being something of an aficionado of the Terpsichorean Muse I have, of course, re-acquainted myself with the establishment that is still only spoken of in this region in hushed voices behind closed doors.
And yet that reluctance to re-embrace the old place is a shame, for it makes a perfect place to which one can “boogie on down” as we regulars say, and one that I have been pleased to re-acquaint myself with.
Thus it was that last night I returned to the venue, and indeed forthwith a woman asked me to dance.
Wishing to thank her for a most perfect experience of trips, sways, spins, whirls, twirls, and even at one point a pirouette I said simply, as the music stopped, “What a superb dancer you are!”
She replied at once, “That’s the corniest chat up line on the dance floor.”
I said, “I’m not trying to chat you up.”
She said, “Oh, so you think I’m not good enough for you.”
I said, “My script writer is getting sacked in the morning.”
I shall explain a little further tomorrow.
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