Digging The Dancing Queen
Late on Saturday evening as we hurtled toward 2017, Karen and I were guests at a local house party. I thoroughly enjoyed the evening where I mixed my drinks, my words when singing Auld Lang Syne and with amiable company.
It’s the first new years house party I’ve attended for decades. Obviously, the conversation topics are a tad different now I’m in my 50’s to the last time I saw New Year in at someone’s home.
Instead of the discussions in my 20’s/30’s of football, cricket, women and who can belch the loudest, talk was of hospital visit one-upmanship and who in the group had undergone the most invasive surgery.
At one point I wasn’t sure if I’d joined the guests of a New Years Eve party or had inadvertently became an extra in the BBC’s hospital drama Casualty.
I don’t want to sound disrespectful, though, as it was a really good night with congenial hosts who couldn’t have done more to make us all welcome……. With the possible exception of paying off our mortgage.
Seriously, though, despite my tongue in cheek comment about us middle aged malingerers, the evening went swimmingly without a bed pan or ambulance in sight.
During the evening a karaoke took place, predominantly utilised by the younger element in attendance. I didn’t treat our hosts and fellow guests to the beauty of my Sinatraesque crooning, however at one point my wee missus did hit the microphone as part of a group performance of Swedish band Abba’s anthem Dancing Queen.
Karen nailed her part, adding to the overall vocal synergy with a vociferous rendition of the 1970’s dance floor classic written by Bjorn Ulvaeus, Benny Andersson and Stig Anderson…… As I witnessed Karen joyously singing “See that girl. Watch that scene. Digging the Dancing Queen.’ I couldn’t help but think “Bloody hell, what a chuffing din!”
Anyway, we saw the birth of 2017 at our genial hosts domicile, along with an impressive firework display from the direction of Temple Newsham estate. Unlike its conception at the Ainsley Scragg Porcupine Sanctuary, the delivery of 2017 was a relatively painless experience.
Being firmly entrenched in middle age, we left about 1am on New Years Day for our medication, after a very agreeable night. It’s the first time I’ve seen that time of the morning without needing an overnight pee for a long long time.
On a different note, I took the Christmas tree and decorations down this morning. Aesthetically pleasing house guests during the past few weeks, I’ll miss their addition to the overall yuletide ambience in our modest home.
Unlike the Garforth Butterfingered Seamstresses Association, the tree didn’t drop a needle in the three weeks over the festive period. A remarkable achievement bearing in mind the number of occasions the dog crashed into it.
I’ve no idea whose canine it was, but I got sick of it knocking off tree baubles. So much so, that if it had done it once more, a different set of baubles would have been displaced.
Bereft of the kaleidoscopic colour bequeathed to chez Strachan by the festive ornaments, the living/dining room look as tired as yours truly on New Years morning. I envisage a segment of my 2017 will be taken up freshening this jaded paintwork.
Hope your 2017 is one of health, prosperity and a paucity of tedious jobs like decorating.