Prancing About

My brother and I are running out of ways to entertain ourselves. Today’s activity consisted of me, astride an old bicycle that we found in the back of the garage, and him, trying to knock me off said bicycle with a football, as I cycled at speed in circles around our garden while being chased by our small dog. All fun and games.

But at least we can venture outside. I’ve been going slowly mad trapped indoors, with only silence and a potted cactus for company. Sometimes I’ve become so bored I’ve even started doing household tasks like hoovering, and cleaning things like basins and taps. I didn’t even know such things needed to be cleaned. I mean, they experience soap and water more often than most household objects, you’d think they cleaned themselves.

I normally hate housework (most sane people do), except if it’s tidying my room. There’s an innate pleasure in walking into your room multiple times after a cleaning session, just observing the majesty that you’ve produced. Whenever my mum asks (tells) me to hoover, I drag myself round the house like I’m wading through something un-wadeable, acting as though I’m to be executed once this menial task is complete. The only enjoyment that is to be found around the topic of hoovers is when your mum asks you to ‘just run around downstairs with the hoover.’ Every time, without fail, I will prance around the downstairs of the house in a mock slo-mo run holding the hoover, sometimes for fifteen minutes or more until I’m noticed and given a patronising smile. My comedic genius amazes even me, sometimes.

Why I do it I’ll never know. A similar thing occurs in shoe shops – when you get told to try some shoes out and just have a bit of a walk around, nobody ever just walks. Maybe for a bit, but then you look back and see your mum perched on one of those large squares on legs next to the shoe-shop person, both of them looking at you expectantly. So, you give them a weak smile for reassurance and proceed to undertake the least walky walk that anybody has ever walked. Up, down, jumping about, heel, toe, toe, heel, rolling onto the sides of your feet, a little three-metre sprint down the quietest bit of the shop, then back to the squares on legs to report your findings. If you ever saw somebody walking down the street like that, you’d probably ring someone. Shoe shop workers must be so confused walking home from work, wondering why nobody’s walking backwards, or sidestepping around corners. Shoe shops must be home to some of the strangest behaviours humans ever exhibit in public. I’ll happily prance around Clarks for five minutes in front of people I barely know in order to test out some new school shoes, but I’m more likely to walk towards a bus that I’ve missed as it slowly drives off thirty-five metres away than run in public. Psychologists should do a study on these places, before channel 4 get in there with the documentary team.