Tuesday 12 December 2017

Patsy's new skills take pole position

EVERY year, we ladies have a serious think about doing night classes and, now and again, we actually sign up for them.

I once took car maintenance classes, but only because the man I was going out with at the time kept going on and on about the heap of rust he was driving, as if it were a Porsche. As part of my sneaky plan I told him I had signed up for cookery classes.

During the first class I learned about tappets and their functions, which helped enormously when he started complaining about the noise coming from under his bonnet. “Your tappets probably need replacing,” I was able to say to him as if I were Lewis Hamilton's right-hand woman. The look on his face was worth having to fork out for the class in the first place.

At our age we don't do car maintenance but we often talk about enrolling for humanities or anthropology, or something that we like the sound of but can't spell. Except for Patsy, who last week let us in on her secret. “I enrolled for pole-dancing classes a couple of weeks ago,” she announced.

“You are a liar!” I shrieked at her. “There are no poledancing classes in Kildare.” (Any pole-dancing instructors in Kildare feel free to contradict me on this).

“And anyway, there is no way you could get on a pole unless the rest of us were underneath holding you up,” said Josie.

“Or if it was lying flat on the ground,” added Maggie.

“What do you wear?” I wanted to know. In fairness to her, she kept a straight face. “Oh, you know, high heels and lycra shorts,” she said, nonchalantly flicking back her fringe.

The three of us snorted into our coffee. “It can only be called exercise if you wear trainers. Wearing high heels means you are either in a brothel or you are now a fully fledged lap dancer and, to be honest, if you sat on anyone's lap, you'd probably suffocate them,” I said to her. (I'm a firm believer in that old adage that you have to be cruel to be kind).

“So what sort of exercises do you do?” asked Maggie.

“Once I've shimmied up the pole, I can get my legs out in front in a V shape,” she said, giving us a little demonstration from her seat. To be honest it looked like a pot-bellied pig doing the splits.

“You've never been up a pole in your life, have you?” stated Josie. “No,” she replied, a bit downcast. “But I was hoping the four of us could join a class after Christmas.”

Hell will freeze over before you will catch me pole-dancing.

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