Going Native

Ever so often, in a remote hotel room, in a remote country, a mobile link is not sufficient to maintain the brain cells synapsing to a homeland and we enter the state of "going native". It may be once upon a time an old codger that once boasted he danced the 'Time Warp' admirably, is now being called upon by a local Latina office girl to dance, obliged to dance once more, challenged as part of Team Building. A bi-polar oppportunity to dazzle or be daft. An unwilling non-native participant who at best knows that each arthritic hip connected still somehow to aching bum muscles have lost the will to sync to a musical beat, muscles super-keen now to remain clenched to a seat, rather than clenching and unclenching to an unknown beat.

But it has to be done, to enter the spirit, and one thanks God at least for the inward entering of alcoholic spirit to soften the embarrassment, to provide a false bravery and an excuse for such appalling dancing tomorrow at the office...... or perhaps not. Perhaps one still is the dancer of old, the funkmaster...one might still have it.

Polite applause is duly provided by the local smiling audience which may mask a genuine appreciation for having a go; or a gentle mocking that begs a question can Europeans dance without a neck or wrists; or worst of all ......one has indeed become an office coffee machine talking point tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, a 2015 Christmas party favourite anecdote .

A Danger sign is waved like a smuggler's lantern warning of the phantom cliffs, daring me in, a Danger sign unfoitunately waived - Do not dance do not drink anymore, because one is not returning to youthful attractiveness and one is not a wee bit suave, because one can bend a knee...slowly. One is not as yet as one with the local populus' dancing skills, because it is not a success if one just manages not to fallover, whilst appearing as if it is one dance slide away from falling over.

It is here that reality check of a bald fat guy wobbling about blushing like a 14 year old, whilst pretending to stare at something in the distance is not a pretty sight. Boasts of "cutting shapes" last night will not probably cut it with the co-workers, sub-workers and uber-workers tomorrow as they giggle into their freshly tepid coffees.

Sanity check is needed before job is lost, passport exchanged and hip replacement is undertaken not by the NHS. Going Native is dangerous stuff.

What the...whether

They stare in the equivalent of "What the..." seeing a strange sights in their local sites, perhaps it may seem an alien has been seen - their first contact or perhaps they know I am an illegal resident- another kind of alien. For here the alien is me, damned by the normal behaviour in Blighty. Here it is called in question .....here.... They say that it is not a poor climate, but a poor choice of clothes and here an ex-pat is like the weather. It is not being an ex-pat but a poor choice of clothing. Whether to wear Blighty trackies or the local clothes. Clothes of an older Blighty generation.

Here I might be "in", if only I had brought over and somehow retained that 70's wardrobe of corduroy. Then I could have camouflaged myself like a zebra on a zebra crossing.


Occasionally I wear a football shirt, not that I play beyond a father-son kickabout; and so by this choice of fashion, I am not like the other dads, no .....not ever .....wearing footie shirts was UK-stylie. Here it is cardie or light pullover, in smart shirt casual. Society demanding I am old before my time.

I am a middle aged Rebel with a cause to revel in growing old with dignity of a bald head hidden under a Baseball cap. Foreigners are from Mars and Locals are from me'n'us.