The catch

Today was one of those days when living on a remote island wasn't so faaaaabulous. I'm sure some of you are getting a pig sick of tales of uninterrupted bliss anyway, but I was quite happy with the easy living. I write this evening from my office as we have been without power and water for ten hours at the house today for planned engineering works, although I must have missed the memo with the pre-warning. I had planned a nice long lay-in but instead woke in a muck sweat in 72 degrees, 82 percent humidity and no damn ceiling fan! It was overcast as well so couldn't even just while away the day in the sun. Very grrrrr!

Managed to successfully waste three hours of my life on a 24 box set, that was until the laptop battery ran out. The Counter Terrorist Unit had been attacked by nerve gas so Jack Bauer and the team were in a sealed room, 20 minutes away from certain death as the seals were corroded by the chemicals (Spoiler alert: they obviously didn't die in the end in case you were worried). It should have made my problems seem insignificant but it didn't really help. I still had to spend the day feeling like a tramp.

Last night however I did have some good, clean fun. Went to my first ever ceilidh dance with my Scottish housemate, Mhairi. It was a well-attended affair organised by the Caledonian Society of Bermuda. I've definitely met more Scots here than I ever did at home, which is kinda crazy. Having never been to Scotland(!) it was an interesting cultural experience, complete with bagpipes and kilts, although washed it down with rum swizzles rather than a more appropriate Scotch. Think we were probably among the youngest there, but it was still pretty wild on the floor with plenty of spinning and highland flinging.

Among my favourite dances were 'Stripping the Willow' and the 'OXO' dance. Couldn't help but compare this new dancing experience from faraway shores with the more customary Dancehall reggae lessons I took on these shores last year, which was more more 'Stripping' and 'XXX'. For those of you not in the know, Dancehall is the kinda thing you'd see in a Snoop Dogg video. In other words, truly shocking. I'm no prude but it was eye-opening to say the least. It looks a little like this...



It's all about the ass. Now I was blessed with, in the words of Bridget Jones, 'a bottom the size of Brazil' but Dancehall did not come naturally. Just having plenty of junk in your trunk isn't enough, there is definitely a talent to get you butt to move like this. I was told by my 21-year old instructor that it takes hours of practice.

Now let me explain how I got here, when I read 'reggae dance lessons', I thought great, there's something I wouldn't do at home, a new experience! Little did I know was it was something I wouldn't do in public let alone at home. I think I had imagined some gentle island vibing to a little Bob Marley but in reality it was eight weeks of watching my own ass shake over my shoulder (yes this is possible to do with practice), grinding my hips whilst on all fours, a little jumping and waving and some more grinding, this time while doing a shoulder stand. I may be paying for these classes later with an early double hip replacement.

To make matters worse, the lessons took place in the most fitting of environments, a primary school gym. Class started with us all finding a spot on the climbing frame bars around the room for some warm-up 'wine it dawn' and up again. Curiously the caretaker seemed to arrive before the end of class to lock up the school just in case we were finished early. Really.

But hey I'm no quitter and diligently attended every lesson. I feel it's important to lap up every cultural experience as an expat and it's one to tell the grandkids. Or maybe not.