I suddenly feel so melancholy, post-Ukulelescope. I sometimes wonder whether it’s ever worth feeling fleetingly happy when this ensuing sadness is the inevitable result.
I need to send family members out of the house with what little money I have in my purse, begging them to return with scraps of music and silent film to feed my cravings, or else ask them to try to recreate the joy of yesterday evening for me somehow. Go on, please.
Do that slightly wobbly, ever-so-serious synchronised dance in my kitchen, as demonstrated by the pupils of Margaret Morris. If I lead, you can follow. Dress up in bloomers and show me how to throw a man and break his wrist, then ‘torture his leg’. Or you could fabricate a giant green snail and pretend to ride on it. Please. Oh, that’s better. Oh, you know I can’t stop dancing when you play that magic fiddle. Ahhhh.