“Saint Michael is kind to strangers” is the motto of the nearby town of Linlithgow, and the same sentiment applies to the ladies and gentlemen of Mrs McLean’s Waltzing Party. As always, I was delighted to see our veteran dancers sweeping up the newcomers into the fun.
But Generation Z, you’re going to be the death of me. By Friday morning at 10 AM, I had sold only 27 tickets. Penury loomed. But then sales skyrocketed. My phone pinged with requests: “Can my friend get a ticket?” In the cab on the way to the Dean, I was kept busy tapping replies. At the Dean Hall itself, as the piper played outside, unexpected guests arrived. And, after scanning the room, a masterful young man took out his phone and whistled up three more girls. Result: we were a crowd of 59.
This time we were blessed with visits from two priests, one who hovered over the cake table and another, well muffled up, who chatted genially behind the pillars of the former nave. For the first time, there was a cleric on hand to lead the Prayer to Saint Michael. And then there were 15 more minutes for gentlemen to go around the room soliciting names for their dance cards.
As a dance organiser, I am a little obsessed with those cards. The printer’s fee: £22. The cost of the pencils: £30. The ribbons so the pocketless ladies could tie them to themselves: £8. Overall cost: £60. But I adore them .
My angry knees would not let me dance, so I watched the merriment from the stage, when I was not hobbling hither and thither to make introductions or refill the squash. I had a ringside seat to the band, Wisps o’ the Tay, and could signal to our waltz pianist Anthony.
The dancing began with The Gay Gordons, and our first waltz, performed after Max and Marcjanna gracefully illustrated the steps, was The Blue Danube.
The Dashing White Sergeant followed, and then we had The Tennessee Waltz, the St. Bernard’s Waltz, Sleeping Beauty, and the Eightsome Reel.
“Never again,” said a non-fan of the Eightsome Reel.
“Practice makes perfect,” I replied.
There were, by the way, no fewer than three former students of the New England St. Thomas Aquinas College (TAC), which is famous for dancing, and I was most impressed by their moves.
We had about 45 minutes for the intermission, during which there was swing dancing to recorded music (yes, next time, we will do something about the volume) and to Maddi and Rosa’s fun rendition of “Chattanooga Choo Choo.”
Meanwhile, in a smaller room, Euan, who wore the Great Kilt (see GK below), practised the Sword Dance under the gaze of a group of children.
The ceilidh dancing recommenced with the Virginia Reel, and then the waltzers had Shostakovich’s Waltz #2. There followed the somewhat complicated Lomond Waltz, performed to especially lovely music (including Wild Mountain Thyme) by the band. Then there was the Upstairs, Downstairs Waltz, the Canadian Barn Dance, Vito’s Waltz and, of course, Strip the Willow.
It seemed everyone who could walk took part in Strip the Willow, the zenith of every ceilidh dance. I definitely spotted a six-year-old, and I think there was even a four-year-old in the clapping, swinging crowd.
Then we sang Auld Lang Syne (a bit chaotic with Mr McLean’s wheelchair). I then thanked everyone and made a plea for dishwashers. We sang Salve Regina, and Krzysztof made a lovely speech. I scooped up the accompanying lilies, and went about saying goodnight to people.
When I went into the kitchen, I found three Caledonian SSPX supporters generously washing the dishes and ferociously bantering gentler FSSP and diocesan boys. It was a scene only George Macdonald Fraser could describe, so I asked Krzysztof to keep everything under control. In hindsight, I should have asked him to be kitchen manager, for the collecting, washing, and drying of dozens of wine glasses, coffee cups, saucers, cake plates, little spoons and forks, let alone putting them all back in their boxes, chastely unmixed with the hall’s china, by midnight is a feat of organisation I suddenly found beyond me.
“I’m going to faint,” I thought but fortunately didn’t. My knees, however, hurt like Billy-o. (I’m having an MRI next week.)
A great deal of male industry got all the dishes washed, boxed and taken to Czarek’s car, and then more male industry got them into the McLean abode, where they sat heaped up in the sitting-room until I had the strength to deal with them.
So that is my organiser’s view of the dance, and as always I wrote down new instructions to my future self: always check the stage lighting with the leader of the band before allowing the hall manager to go away; recruit volunteers (children?) to refill the jugs; and stop being cheap and just buy headsets and speakers for ceilidh callers.
Thank you very much to Gerald (below) for the wonderful photos! If you were at the dance and would like to see more, please send me a message. A very happy Michaelmas to you all. Please pray for me–and my knees!
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