Alla Hoo Hoo has been giving Mr3 dancing lessons. His newfound skills appeared, quite suddenly, during dinner about a week ago. He put down his fork, stood up, took a step back and began to move, overtaken by an urge he could not explain.
He was a whirling dervish of clapping, foot stomping, knee slapping beauty in red flannel pyjamas. His blonde hair flew as he turned faster and faster, cheeks reddening with effort, eyes sparkling with joy.
The Builder and I could only sit, open-mouthed, and take it all in. It was like watching someone possessed.
The actual dance itself is difficult to describe. Imagine a slapping/tapping/Lederhosen style of Germanic origin, crossed with an Irish jig and some Scottish sword work.
Spectacular does not begin to describe it.
He is earnest about practising his new moves. Willing to demonstrate them at the drop of a hat.
He told me that his ‘friend’ Alla Hoo Hoo taught him everything she knows. At all the parties they frequent together, no doubt. Which, it transpires, they attend in her purple forklift.
Sometimes, I wonder about Alla Hoo Hoo. The other day, we were driving around when Mr3 suddenly burst into song. A song that Mr6 didn’t know and hadn’t taught him. A song that I hadn’t taught him. A song that I’m pretty sure The Builder doesn’t know.
“Did you learn that at preschool?” I asked, after the requisite round of applause and effusive compliments on his singing that he requires. Nay, demands.
“No,” he said, serene, looking out the window. “Alla Hoo Hoo taught me.”
Mr6 and I were silent. Our eyes met in the mirror. Wondering… Well, wouldn’t you?