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the colours in your head


Jon and I went out clubbing last night.

This is remarkable on two counts: firstly, it was Sunday, when you think any respectable person would be sleeping off their Friday-Saturday hangovers and preparing to make a dashing impact on the working week. The club, however, was bizarrely packed. Perhaps the term "Stylish Club" tacked on to the brass sign (newly added since last year) at the entrance accounted for the people? Secondly and more importantly, Jon can't dance.

His not being able to dance falls more into the realm of endearing rather than crippling (though I almost killed myself a couple times trying to keep up with him) but there is a rather overlarge amount of fists pumping frenetically in the air, Fancy Footwork (tm), sudden lunges and attempts at twirling me(made kind of amusing if you factor in the height difference), and, most notably, random acts of clapping. He fit right in with the Russians. It was hilarious.

There's noone I would rather dance with.


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