Postcard from Andalucia

A snapshot of time. It’s Midnight in a friendly hotel bar somewhere in Southern Spain. Tonight has been the Wheeltappers & Shunters Andalucia danceathon. The bar is fine, the waiters friendly and an Iberian Covers Band have savagely beaten death songs ranging from 1940 to 1983. It is finally time for the last rites; Chubby Checker’s “Let’s Twist Again” segueing seamlessly into “Wake Me Up Before You GoGo”. This is not Prince on Burton Road or The Pistols at The Lesser Free Trade Hall”. This is family holidays and a dance floor full of the Octogenarian Mutant Njnja Turtles.

Didsbury Wife and I have slow danced and enjoyed the freedom of not speaking the language or knowing the dance floor etiquette as we bounced off a swirling 80 year old dressed as a tablecloth and wearing cataract glasses with a touch of the Edgar Davids. The noise of the band drowns out the sound of clicking hips and Didsbury Son dutifully steps up to share the last dance with Didsbury Wife.

Oh the passage of time. This is no longer the squeaking Blondini delighted to share the dance floor with his glamorous mum. This is the pre-teen, acutely aware and overly conscious boy who feels the world is filming and judging his every move. So when I popped up to take a snap for posterity I was shunned like a paparazzi on a moped.

Diana and Dodi, Brad. still married to Jen with Angelina. Didsbury Son walked off the floor, hand up to the lens, warning me of the consequences. The passage of time can be difficult.

Six hours ago the five of us had frugged around the room to Europop with The Mighty-Headed Boy and The Pearly-topped girl whooping with delight and waving at the camera with their big brother as we laughed and cheered. The rest is silence.