Sime says

I viewed the invitation with trepidation. I wasn't to be a spare appendage at a wedding, but single at a 60th. I'm well versed at fronting up to events on my own. Call me Pat Malone but in reality many years of parachuting in between cosy couples and group conversations have hardened me up, on the outside at least. There is no alternative, walk right in or wilt like a wallflower. Knowing the calibre of the host, I knew his birthday bash would be a rip snorter of an event. And so it was. I had nothing to worry about, until it came to the dancing routine. It takes courage and a little amber liquid to loosen my limbs and discard diffidence. But things can get decidedly sticky on a dance floor: when to move, where to move, how to move, who to move with and when to move off. No sweat? Hardly. Women have no such dread. They flow onto the dance floor in a whimsical way. Completely absorbed, unaffected and free to shake, rattle and roll their beauty in a wonderful rhythm ...

It's a sad fact: I can't handle crickets. The svelte-legged little critters make my skin crawl. Summer's here and they're marching en masse into my house. Hairy Huntsmen spiders, sewer-dwelling roaches and beefy-looking beetles are a doddle to deal with in comparison to Jiminy cricket and his mates. Last week an interloper came down the hallway settled on the grandfather clock and began a jam session with father time. I put an end to Jimmy and the Crickets informal musical event by throwing a tea towel in his direction. This method was employed by my father who was a bit of a wuss when it came to removing an  orthopteran  from the house. Quivering at the thought of picking up the little blighter, a tea towel provided a buffer zone by enabling dad to bundle up Jiminy and set him free outside. One has to work quickly in order for a catch and release to be successful. Armed with a handful of tea towels and a kitchen broom as backup, I lobbed a lump of linen a...