Briefly…

Oh daddy, you soooo can NOT dance.

‘Ey mate. Nice dancin’ out there.

Yes I can, sweetheart.

Hey, thanks.

Umm, no. No you cannot.

‘Ad the girls really goin’!

But check out my…

Yeah, right…

Don’t you even!

No, really! Kept it lively, fun.

You do know, it was I who taught you how to dance.

You can only attack life in joy, or as a chore, right? I chose the former.

Well maybe, but that was a long time ago!

Well it was great.

And…?

I had fun, thanks.

And you’re too old now!

Neva’ too old not too, right?

•••

robot-badge

Two separate conversations, intertwined. The first between my daughter and me, the second between Australian pop star Cody Simpson and the self same me again.

While the first chat could happen on almost any given occasion, its counterpart resulted from my recent need of part time employment to supplement my income (or as I like to call it, “Career, Pt. 2”). This brought me in contact with Mr. Simpson, as the soul barrier between him and 500 screaming ‘tweens – armed only with safety scissors and a smile. My control of these jibbering masses, through dancing about and joking with them, was noticed and remarked upon by Cody and his handlers, and it was their comments in general that formed the (mostly) fictional chat I had with him above.

Fortunately for some (and sadly for others I suppose), Deb did not choose any Cody tunes for the 100 Word Song prompt this week (click the link! Play along!), so we’ll be listening to One Republic’s “Counting Stars” instead.

Peace. Rest in it, Mr. Elmore Leonard.

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