Shifting away from the melodrama...

I figure that the surgery-related posts have given us all enough dreariness for now; it is time to catch up on a couple of episodes that will hopefully take the maudlins away.

First, by popular request, the business over the dishy Deputy Ambassador. Goody!

One of the simple pleasures to emerge during the Korea years has been membership at the British Embassy pub. It has been a little slice of home in a foreign land: packed with Brits, good beer, and familiar accents. It runs simply: every Friday night, the bar is open to members and guests. Embassy staff serve the drinks, while expats and some locals crowd in for the company and conversation. I've struck up several good friendships there- it is where I first met the couple who Annie will be moving in with next week, for example- and the people have been as kind and concerned about my health and its physical impact as they have needed to be- and being British, have promptly found ways to help me laugh at it. My membership has initiated participation in related mischief such as the Robert Burns Dinner in January and the St Andrew's Ball in November. Both events are brilliant - whiskey and kilts, with poetry in the former and Scottish Country Dancing in the latter. I am good at poetry. I am less good at dancing.

Last January, a gaggle of friends and I toddled along to the Burns dinner, and my (I flatter myself) gift for pithy rhyme resulted in our table winning the poetry competition. The prize for this included tickets to the next society event, the Muckleshunter, which I was unable to attend. Instead, I was given a ticket to the Ball, to be held next Saturday night.

This Ball originated in a different era in Seoul. The St Andrews Society was made up of ex-pats- mainly Scots- none of whom was of the ilk to retire early from a knees-up, and this Ball was a serious knees-up. Formal attire, sixteen or so different dances, food of a Scottish flavour- including haggis- and more whiskey than the human imagination could conceive. There was still a curfew in the city at that time, and the party-goers figured that the best way to beat the law was simply to keep playing until the next morning, serving breakfast before departing for home. The curfew has disappeared, but the pattern remains: eat, play, drink and dance the whole evening away.

It is a great night out. While I am not generally happy to stay up all night, I have managed it- the biggest issue for me remains the dancing. I have no memory for dance patterns, and this is ALL about remembering when to cast off or set or which partner stands on which side and gets swung round... Honestly, it is a debacle. I can barely manage to coordinate myself during aerobics- add another seven couples into the mix, high heels and a long dress. Farce. I think people may pay the ticket price just to watch.

So, when the posters went up and friends started committing to go, it was clear that some pre-Ball practice would be required. The dances were all laid out on the website, but friend Alex and I determined to attend one of the official practices at the Embassy. One Wednesday afternoon, we toddled onto the bus and headed for Seoul.

The Embassy grounds are in the City Hall region of town, one of those interesting enclaves where stepping five paces off the main drag makes one feel like the city is somewhere else altogether. We passed through the guard gate without incident, and headed down into the basement of the long grey building that houses the various departments of the diplomatic services. The crowd had already gathered, dotted here and there with familiar faces: the Head of the British School, a few teachers, several acquaintances from the pub, and the Deputy Ambassador.

Time for an aside: I have no interest whatsoever in this man: would not, could not, do not. Important to say this from the outset, however briefly. I won't belabour the point, beyond insisting that it is true. However, he is quite startlingly attractive, in a Greg Wise/public schoolboy sort of way. He is attractive enough that, despite aforementioned total lack of interest, he renders one babbling and blushing, much as an unexpected encounter with Johnny Depp or Clive Owen- or indeed, Greg Wise- would do. I see him occasionally around the pub and its environs, and he is unfailingly gentlemanly and pleasant, making no reference at all to my inability to string together more that four monosyllabic wanna-be words in response to his greeting.

This night at dance practice, he was there. Alex and I took to the floor for the first reel. She, dance professional that she is, was quickly counting off the steps and learning the routines. I, on the other hand, was trying not to fall over, crash into the walls, or step on the feet of the people in the set on the other side of the room. Graceful, not.

My energy levels at the time were still at a low ebb, this being a few months ago while I was in the middle of my second round of chemotherapy,  and Alex was prepared for me to need to sit out most of the dances. That was okay. Her goal was to run through as much as possible to get the steps into her head so that she could teach them to the rest of us. After the second interval, I was ready for a break, and asked to be excused. My place in the set was immediately- instantly, in fact- appropriated by a young man who had been hovering on the edges of the room for about half an hour. He leapt forward so rapidly that I could have been forgiven for thinking he'd been muttering incantations against me from the sidelines, wishing me ill so that he could step into my space. He was clearly very happy to partner Alex.

Alex was, as always, kindess itself to the young man. He was a familiar face to me, but conversation with him had always been limited because of... well... trying to remain generous here... his being highly focused on his work, shall we say? Soooooo very focused. Poor man. He was also very interested in the lovely Alex, and refused to leave her side for the rest of the evening, even when I had recovered enough to take my place back in the dance. He would not be shifted, despite my loud attempts to rescue her from his determined clutches. Alex, a painful plea for help in her eyes, found herself with him in a group that contained several hard-core Scottish country dancers; a few converts to the form who were bossy, pushy and irritable with any new additions to the set, and who were impatiently shouting at the unfortunates who missed a step or headed in the wrong direction. I was well out of it, and did not mind sitting quietly on the side, pretending to count off the steps and learn the moves as I watched.

I was startled suddenly by a figure blocking my view of the dance floor. It was the dishy Deputy Ambassador:

DDA: Excuse me,
P: (scarlet) Blurgh?
DDA: My dance partner has to leave now. I wonder if I might trouble you for the next dance?
P: Bleegle, furshwollup.
DDA: That's lovely. Thank you so much. I will be back as soon as I have waved her off.
P: Ack, pleck-wipple blem.

At least, that's what I think I said.

I struggled in vain to find something to say that made me sound less moronic when he returned. In. Vain. He came back from helping his partner on with her coat and saying goodbye, reached out his hand in a 'Nobody puts Patti in the corner' gesture, and led me to the set of in the corner of the room, where I was welcomed by a simply lovely group of people who were accomplished enough in the moves of the Posties' Jig to guide me gracefully through its overs and unders and arounds and throughs and swings for the next fifteen minutes. All this, with dance partner encouraging and smiling and generously ignoring my total incoherence. Not the belle of the Ball, no. But definitely no bad. Nooooo, sir.  

And as I glanced over at Alex's set, I saw one of the cranky experts push his partner into the correct space with a scowl, nearly knocking Alex over in the process. She caught my eye and mouthed, 'I hate you.'

Grinned so hard I darn near broke my face off, and swirled away.