Pass the Shillelagh Please ...

... and please, please beat me with it if I ever think to do this again!

Do you notice the greens that The Cloud and The Cuppa are wearing in the photo? It was St Paddy's Day, and we were invited to a dance at a local club. Of course, since we're still trying to fit into a new community, we agreed to join the party. We really shouldn't have. No really.

To begin with, the proprietors crammed at least two hundred of us into a space in which half as many might have constituted a fire hazard. And yes, there was a dance floor — that was approximately, to be slightly generous, the size of a used postage stamp. And, yes, some of the more confident dancers did utilize the allotted space — a little. By taking teensy weensy steps and keeping their elbows in, they managed to do something that vaguely approximated dancing. However, I couldn't help but observe that nobody ventured onto the floor often or for significant duration.

So, we sat there, in a corner at the back of a table which was in a corner at the back of the room. We had an over-priced drink, a mediocre meal, and attempted a wee bit of shouted conversation in the noisy din, but that attempt was mostly fruital.

The night was scheduled to last for seven hours. We arrived an hour late and departed more than three hours early. So, we weren't really there all that long though it seemed like an eternity.

I wondered if anyone was truly having fun? Is everyone else pretending, or am I the only grouch in the crowd? Perhaps those who were out with a group of old chums might have enjoyed themselves moderately, but I truly doubt anyone had the time of their lives.

Hey, I'm just calling a spade a spade, even if the spade was a really a shillelagh last night.

(I understand that Cuppa is blogging this in the next room. I rather think that she will supply a more detailed, more colourful, and more delightful account. Do check in with her.)