Paul J Penton – Songwriter

Why do I feel like Mr Darcy, banged up in this penguin suit prison, waddling around arms trapped/ pinned to my sides. In the rehearsals it had been all free flowing and easy , the steps chiseled into our unconscious by Rhodan ’s mistress, until like breathing they are now automatic, but doing it in this suit is gonna take some re-learning.  All around there’s a flurry of colour and perfection, manicured faces and trimmed nails long flowing dresses with plunging swan necks, a hot bed of youthful volcanic sexual desire simmering under the surface.

The drinks tray drifts past  I catch a feint tinge of gin and tonic along with a Johnny and coke, later- must focus on getting these steps down pat.  In the ante chamber to the toilets is some ancient wooden paneling from the turn of the 20th century and a swag of boys and girls waiting in a queue. The air is heavy with roughly applied doses of brut 33 and perfumes from Yves Saint Laurent/ Gucchi and too many other hard to pronounce names. All of the girls are stunning, their hair sitting like dreamy clouds on top of faces far in advance of their years – a wonder what make-up can do. Soon we’ll be wheeling around the dance floor in clock work precession, numbers counting off in our heads like sheep when you can’t sleep as we fall into the hypnotic memory of Mrs Wilkinson’s stern instruction. Then we’ll sneak outside for a swig or two from the mixer bottles we’ve brought full of vodka and coke – You can’t smell it but its a burning log fire- wonderful in the back of your throat.