Sunday afternoon. Eton.

I’ve just put out an appeal for help setting up for the afternoon’s Matinée Milonga. It’s a job that usually takes me 3 hours, but today we have just 30 minutes to do everything. Yikes!

And there’s a lot to do besides putting out tables and  chairs.  Every table has to be decorated with fresh roses. Water and cups need to be put out for everyone.   All the audio cables, speakers, and laptops have to be connected, and the hall itself has to be decorated with drapes, curtains, and rope lights.  The toilets need fresh towels. The tanda display has to be set up.

Everyone springs into action, and we get stuck in.

25 minutes later, and I can’t quite believe it; everything has been done!  The doors are open and dancers are starting to arrive.  The hall is looking great and the music is playing.

Thanks David, Russell, Phil and Maxine; you worked a miracle!

When I first started going to Tango events the music really didn’t matter to me; frankly I was far too busy concentrating on stringing together a few dance steps to worry about anything apart from not making a complete fool of myself.

And, to be honest, the art of Tango DJing wasn’t much evolved back then; all kinds of tracks were mixed together by DJs who didn’t know better, and we just carried on regardless.

Then I got the chance to DJ at our milongas, and it suddenly I had a new responsibility; what music to play?  What order to play in in? How loud? I had to navigate through a strange foreign land of orchestras, singers, and styles.

In a panic I spent hour, after hour, after hour amassing whatever Tango music I could find and listening to every single track. And I’m still at it (right after posting this blog I’ll be spending a couple of hours reviewing my collection of tracks by Juan Maglio).

You’d have thought that by now I’d be used to it.  After all, at the last count I have been the DJ at over 300 milongas.

But I STILL get really nervous before DJing at a milonga.  Will the tracks that sounded so great together at home work OK in a big venue full of dancers? Will I get the energy right?  Will the tandas flow? Have I missed an obvious choice?

There are so many potential pitfalls, problems, and chances that might not be worth taking.

And then the dancers start to arrive, the floor starts to fill, and the night takes on a life of its own.  I get absorbed in watching the dancing, mulling over track selections, making notes, planning ahead and trying to guide the dancing.  Then all of a sudden it’s time to announce the last tanda, and the evening is over.

aaand relax!

Brian Fowler has written this short story, prompted by a competition on Radio 2 for children to write a story with no more than 500 words:

The Final Word

It was Saturday; again. There was never a reason to smile on Saturday. He awoke always with an immediate feeling of disappointment.

Monday to Friday had a purpose, not always good, but at least a reason to catch the train or head to the shops for the week’s essentials. Sunday was not necessarily a day of rest but taking it easy on Sunday was still an acceptable plan to be achieved, perhaps even savoured.

Saturday, the day, was too full of other people going to too many places in too much of a hurry and wherever possible places and people to be avoided. It was Saturday evening though that left a feeling of almost anxiety, an evening when for so many it was a time for anticipation, preparation, the excitement of going somewhere special with someone special.

It had not been like that for him for so long that it was well nigh impossible to recall the excitement of a night at the theatre or a favourite restaurant. Saturday evenings now were evenings of seclusion and television programmes that were designed with the knowledge that there were few people at home to watch them: Except people like him.

Surely this Saturday needn’t be the same and if it was to be then what of all the other Saturday’s to come. He was not old: He might reasonably be described as middle-aged and while it was not likely that he would be considered athletic he felt that he looked okay; walked with a jaunty step and, most days, with a smile not too far below the surface.

Perhaps that was what he needed to get him out of this slough of despondency. Not depressed no, but with a feeling that this could not be another wasted evening. The weather was fine and warm and he knew the river would be at its most enticing at this time of the year; so that’s the plan, a walk by the river. Into town, take the steps by the bridge and go where the towpath will take me.

Why not make it a special occasion. On the return journey stop off at the wine bar in the high street and enjoy watching those other people enjoying themselves. Why not?

It would take a bit more effort if the walk was to have an objective and a wine bar would surely demand a clean shirt and, against all the usual Saturday tradition, a shave too. Go for broke; shower time.

Strange how such a simple plan lifted him as he took time in selecting what he considered the best shirt which required the best trousers and jacket and a fresh shine on his shoes.

The jaunty step? Oh yes that came too and one or two he passed seemed to notice his self-satisfaction and smiled as he went on his way.

He turned the corner approached the church hall and he saw it; the banner over the door – Tango.

The beginning