Morris Dancing

Apparently it was Sir Thomas Beecham who said "Try everything once except incest and Morris Dancing" and I would suggest that you can't go far wrong if you follow his advice. Perhaps it is wrong of me, and terribly British too, to mock one of our country's oldest traditions, but we must not lose sight of the reality here.
Let's start by looking at the traditional dances of other countries and see how we measure up in comparison. Brazil has the Samba, a carnival dance full of rhythm, colour and exuberance. It speaks of nights spent partying, of dancing on the warm sands at Copacabana, of mischief and merriment.
Spain has Flamenco, an old gypsy dance full of pain and passion as it recounts the centuries of oppression experienced by the 'gitanos'. Austria lays claim to the Viennese Waltz (at least I presume it does - if not it needs renaming)  full of elegance, poise and romance, with suavely dressed men and the beautiful swishing skirts of the ladies. And of course, my personal favourite, the Argentine Tango, sultry and seductive danced by stunningly beautiful couples.
So, that's what we're up against England. What have you got to offer? Oh, let's see what we can come up with. How about a bunch of men (mainly men, and anyway most women who morris dance could easily pass as male) who could all do with a good wash, haircut and shave, dressed in white boiler suits? We can throw in a few props too, maybe some bells (for maximum annoyance), sticks and handkerchiefs? They can prance on the spot with no discernible moves involved, making a god-awful noise and throwing around bits of Kleenex.
Now I'm sure someone is going to set me straight, pointing out that the dance dates back to 1483 and depicts the anguish of the lowly peasant in feudal England, with the handkerchiefs symbolising the shrouds used during the time of the plague, and the sticks bring used to ward off evil spirits (I made all that up, please don't quote me as a leading authority on folk dancing if you are writing a dissertation for your Phd). I think we need a new national dance. Perhaps we could have a spin-off of Eurovision but a dancing version instead? My prediction? Le Royaume-Uni, nul points.

Lowering Your Standards

One of my favourite quotes is "Being happy does not mean that everything is perfect. It means that you've decided to look beyond the imperfections." This is a much more eloquent way of putting into words what I have been saying for years. If things aren't going the way you wanted there are two choices you have. You can either change things, or if that isn't possible, you can lower your expectations. In fact there is a third choice. Stay exactly as you are and be miserable! Here are some areas of my life where I have had to accept less than perfection.

My Home:
The Dream. I have a big, spacious home in the country but close enough to pop into London, with enough room for all my husband's mess to be hidden away. The elegant driveway leads you to a beautiful, imposing front door with a gleaming brass handle and possibly a butler to open it. The rooms are tastefully decorated, furnished with choice pieces I have picked up from antiques dealers and from my world travels. I greet guests looking immaculate and with a welcoming smile as I effortlessly mingle and hand out pates of mouth-watering canapés I have prepared myself.
The Reality. I have a small, messy house which has seen better days which faces onto a busy road popular with boy racers who can't read speed limits and have appalling taste in music. The plaster is crumbling, we have a smelly hedgehog living under the stairs and the bathroom is an 80s monstrosity featuring a peach suite and wallpaper with the Latin names for flowers on it (also peach). I have to spend hours stuffing all the mess into drawers and cupboards before people come round and usually say 'shall we just get a takeaway?' to any guest brave enough to accept an invitation.

My Car:
The Dream. I have a lovely little sporty number (brand new of course) with every possible gadget you could think of. Who knows, I may even have indulged in some personalised plates. It runs like a dream and I get envious glances from people at traffic lights. I have it waxed and valeted every couple of weeks. It absolutely drinks fuel but I don't care because I'm rich. Sod the environment.
The Reality. I have had a number of cars, each one having been at least third hand. They run ok for a bit but then start rapidly falling apart. Every year it costs more to get it through the MOT than it is actually worth. It has bumps and scratches and I get smirks at the traffic lights. I use my car as an overflow wardrobe/office/skip so it is always liberally strewn with papers, apple cores and crisp packets.

My Job:
The Dream: I am a internationally acclaimed authority on Modern Spanish Literature and run my own literary translation company. When I am not at my beautiful office in Kensington I can be seen jetting off to publishing conventions all over the Spanish-speaking world, staying in 5 star hotels and generally being popular and intelligent.
The Reality: I teach Spanish to teenagers who really would rather be doing anything else and see no relevance in learning their own language, let alone someone else's. I spend my days trying to extract homework from the idle and covering up the penises they have drawn on my display boards.