it’s hard being a part of the rhythm nation

janet-jackson

Things being what they are with us living in a cash society, I now need more of it. Because much to my great dismay, I am not a trust fund babe, a bon vivant, nor the heir-apparent of an imperial fortune. Although at moments over the past few months I have behaved as one if not as all three at some point along the journey.

So I’ve now settled into a flat-share in Shepherd’s Bush in London, with the next step of finding a job so that I may continue on with my merry making ways and travel a bit more.

As a bit of a side note, in the coming weeks I shall be turning a whole 39 years of age, so have chosen to celebrate by going to Nice, France for the first weekend in October. For an Australian who lives on the bottom end of the earth, you can’t imagine the joy of flying for a couple of hours an being in a whole different country – New Zealand not included.

Anyhoo … me with the digression once again.

I spent the first night in my new place dreaming of a friend to you and to me.

Quite vividly I remember strolling along the channel bank in my childhood town of Swansea, which was lined with people sunbathing on deck chairs and beach towels. (This, of course, never happens in Swansea.) I came across someone I knew to be a friend and had a brief conversation about returning to dance class. (Something I am planning to do in London. I have already bought some new dance shoes for the occasion!) And this friend decided that she must introduce me to s friend of her’s lying a few spaces down the embankment.

So there lying under an umbrella bronzing up her natural dark tan was none other than Miss Janet Jackson. (I had recently seen images of her at her brother’s memorial service and realised that age has come to us all.) I pop myself down next to Janet, and we talk about dancing and all things theatrical. And wouldn’t you know it, she’s teaching a class in town and thinks that I should come along. She further explains that she doesn’t actually dance herself as the teacher, but teaches the choreography with some simple movements. We both understand the unspoken message that this is because she is getting a little older and is not capable of some of the things she use to do.

And there it comes to an end.

Yes, gentle reader, these are the things that go on inside my head while I am sleeping. And I though I would share them with you. No doubt the amateur psychologists out there are all saying. “Oh, I know what that’s all about!” The desperate esoteric spiritualist would probably like to think that I have had a visitation from Michael. But I fear I may be too old for that spectre.

So I await the inner-Oprah’s comments on my psyche with interest.

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