Yesterday, I was confronted with my dark past. If anyone recalls my foray into ballroom dancing, the scariest part of the whole experience, down at King Alfred’s, was the individual with the mullet and the variant leg length who wrestled me around the room, spinning me off and then whizzing me back quick smart into his pigeon chest. With his range of bodily afflictions (including the Billy Rae Cyrus haircut) and mock leather blouson jacket, I felt sure he hailed from the Eastern bloc but when he opened his mouth it was pure Worthing. Anyway, imagine my surprise when I saw him dressed as a postman, delivering a parcel to the house next door. Needless to say, I ducked inside pronto; one cannot be too careful with lone men who like to skip the light fandango in the company of strangers. Talking about strangers, I’m glad to note that the student in the opposite house who prances around his curtainless bedroom twanging on a guitar while oggling my supine form, has done the decent thing and put up a blind. I’ve never felt so exposed (apart from that ugly incident in the Greek cowshed) and have resolved to sort out my own malfunctioning blind forthwith.