James King, Eamonn and Friends

Today we played "Follow Your Leader." We were Eamonn, Christine, myself, and for the first time, Siobhan. Like my daughter ,Ella, Siobhan had spent time in Scotland, Mexico and Spain and was a dancer - so I felt paternalistic. I don't know if Siobhan felt filialistic because her own father is tall, bearded, be-spectaled and making a valuable contribution to society.

We began in the Richmond Centre, then outside along Ferryquay Street, and into the dreaded Foyleside Centre where lurk unwelcoming security personnel who thoroughly disrelish (its a while since I've had a chance to use this wonderful word) our inanities:("inane: empty, void; silly, senseless" - The Reader's Digest Great Encyclopaedic Dictionary - once owned by my late father who was never late, being extremely punctual; and who most certainly would have agreed with the Foyleside security personnel.)

Inside the Foyleside we decided to be minimalist in our actions. Aesthetically, (because of the high pollen count) indoors this would be more appropriate, and less likely to give the security staff a reason for stopping us. eg. What justification could there be for prohibiting someone from walking along scratching their head whilst turning it slowly from left to right - even if a line of three people are doing just the same behind them.

We took it in turns to lead - keeping two or three yards apart, and making use of environmental features like hand-rails. Eventually as we synchronised our peering (please make sure you include the "r" in reading the last word) over the hand-rail into the floor below we observed and heard Sharon Nixon singing into a microphone and broadcasting her voice through a loudspeaker for all in earshot to hear , which was a substantial area. We went to investigate. (But as the gate accountants was closed we had to make do with seeing what the singing was about. ) After ascertaining that in the process of promoting her current Country and western album Sharon Nixon was supporting Action cancer we decided to participate. Christine turned eamonn into a living sculpture by carefully piling our outer garments and accoutrements on toop of him. This was a lot of stuff. Mine alone consisted of Coat, sweater, hat, scarf, gloves and rucksack. Meanwhile Siobhan and I danced. we began with a slow foxtrot, and progressed through waltz, quick-step, slow jive and finished by mirroring each other in free movement. The yewars melted away as I coached siobhan in "Slow, slow, quick, quick, slow" time. When the decades, months, years, weeks and minutes had formed too deep a puddle from all that melting we left off, and after ritualistically disrobing eamonn we left the scene in snaking unison.

Outside, at the edge of Ferryquay Street once more, we continued to be minimalist, but in the context of outdoors our actions were appropriately more extravagant than inside. Christine led us in a very relevant kerbside car-gazing routine, which resembled the head turnings of an absorbed crowd at wimbledon's centre court. eamonn took us to the inside of the pavement, backs against the wall, movong sideways. It felt like edging along a ledge high up a building in a tensely dramatic movie scene. I led us in short bursts of running followed by sustained "freezes" at appropriate places like lamposts. We were joined by a young woman traveller when I incorporated pointing actions during the movement phases, which finished us on a high note. C sharp.