Strictly: On Judging The Judges
We sit in the audience and we drink port and we flick left, then left, then left again, tendering a tindery distance, a little unsure, a little unsafe still, close, not close enough, close, not close enough.
I walk up the stairs to the balcony. Here I am Statler and Waldorf, I am Zeus, I am the ref who could never play football, I am all the tutting voices of childhood.
Back down. In the stalls, again. Somewhere on stage, inside the candy-coloured circus, somewhere within the camp of sweet safe excess, I see another me. When we rehearse the dance of sex, we word our way around it and mind everything, body nothing. Almost nothing.
The Great Love Of My Life. The Great Love Of Her Life. Both sit tight in the balcony watching us. Desire runs up and down, up and down, up and down, then settles, somewhere between, suspended like a dancer raised in the arms of God.