Gemmy has made several attempts so far to tempt us to Sunba, the club that only starts to get going at midnight. On each occasion we have had fun, largely due to Gemmy's company and the, admittedly warm and friendly, atmosphere. But each time we have sat quietly at the bar, listened, even foot tapped to the (quite good actually) music, had a drink, and then gone home. It has felt nice. But late. And the young whippersnappers on the dance floor are much better dressed, much more awake and much cooler than us. Though I like to think they can't hold a candle to our dancing ability. I mean, really. Shuffling from one foot to the other and sticking your hips out? Not enough. Come on. Dance like you mean it.
Even so. We have been content to watch sagely from behind a pint, getting rather more obviously excited at the sight of another gekko than the prospect of seeing in the early hours and expressing our love of the Langkawi jungle through the medium of interpretive dance.
Today though, is our last evening. And, though at no point do we quite expect it, it's, well, a little different.
We make a plan to go out for dinner with Gemmy. He takes us to a place on the beach and we watch the sunset as we eat. It's our last evening, I think, so I order a second glass of wine.
"What was your favourite place to go on an evening on Langkawi?" asks Gemmy as we sit back, contented.
Probably home, with its backdrop of the jungle, and cats and beer on tap, but I sense that's not quite what Gemmy means so I think about the various 'nights out' with Gemmy on the tourist side of the island.
"Probably that place with the 13 ringitt cocktails" I decide.
Said place is a small bar outside a 7 eleven. It's unassuming but generous, in price, in measures and in happy ambience.
"We'll go there then" says Gemmy, clapping his hands together.
Off we go. The company is fantastic and, it being the last night and therefore somehow different, I don't notice the time or whether I am tired this time. We have a couple of cocktails.
It's been a lovely last night. We head for Gemmy's car.
"Shall we just pop into Sunba?" says Gemmy.
We pop. Little do we know that by the time we pop out again it's going to be three in the morning and we are going to be, well, exuberant.
I am not quite sure how it happens. One minute we are sitting at the bar, in our customary positions surveying the dance floor and I am commenting to M that the music is good. Then there is a period in which no one is dancing but everyone wants to and my feet are not so much tapping as basically performing an increasingly more enthusiastic seated dance. I think how much I miss my girlfriends, so that we could hit the dance floor in a pack, then reason that this is just the sort of fearfulness we should be freeing ourselves from and really what is the worst thing that could happen? Some strangers I am never going to see again might not like my dancing? Or think I am fat? What is the actual consequence? What grand drama will ensue if it happens?
(Actually a note of caution - never assume you are never going to see people again. I once went to a bar with a friend and got quite silly. There was some sort of postcard we were supposed to fill out for a competition and we gave our email addresses as 'sausages@ potatoes.jam'. We bumped into the man we grinningly handed the postcard into at the supermarket the next morning.)
Either way the decision is made for me by a Russian man who is even more impatient to dance than I am and who launches himself onto the dance floor, grabs me by the hand and we are off. It's all very innocent - he just wants company so he's not doing a floor show in front of expressionless and silent teenagers - and he senses a kindred spirit. Even so, if find myself dancing with a random guy, I do like to mention my husband. No sooner do I, than the Russian man's face lights up and he uses his considerable size and general magnitude to propel himself across the stage and haul M to his feet. And suddenly neither I nor M nor the Russian stranger care who's watching. Its good music, and it's really good fun.
After that, as M describes it afterwards, one minute no one is dancing, there's a brief period where it's just us and then EVERYONE is dancing. And M and I go crazy.
We don't leave that dancefloor till Gemmy must have dragged us out again. Neither of us is wearing shoes Gemmy has made several attempts so far to tempt us to Sunba, the club that only starts to get going at midnight. On each occasion we have had fun, largely due to Gemmy's company and the, admittedly warm and friendly, atmosphere. But each time we have sat quietly at the bar, listened, even foot tapped to the (quite good actually) music, had a drink, and then gone home. It has felt nice. But late. And the young whippersnappers on the dance floor are much better dressed, much more awake and much cooler than us. Though I like to think they can't hold a candle to our dancing ability. I mean, really. Shuffling from one foot to the other and sticking your hips out? Not enough. Come on. Dance like you mean it.
Even so. We have been content to watch sagely from behind a pint, getting rather more obviously excited at the sight of another gekko than the prospect of seeing in the early hours and expressing our love of the Langkawi jungle through the medium of interpretive dance.
Today though, is our last evening. And, though at no point do we quite expect it, it's, well, a little different.
We make a plan to go out for dinner with Gemmy. He takes us to a place on the beach and we watch the sunset as we eat. It's our last evening, I think so I order a second glass of wine.
"What was your favourite place to go on an evening on Langkawi?" asks Gemmy as we sit back, contented.
Probably home, with its backdrop of the jungle, and cats and beer on tap, but I sense that's not quite what Gemmy means so I think about the various 'nights out' with Gemmy on the tourist side of the island.
"Probably that place with the 13 ringitt cocktails" I decide.
Said place is a small bar outside a 7 eleven. It's unassuming but generous, in price, in measures and in happy ambience.
"We'll go there then" says Gemmy, clapping his hands together.
Off we go. The company is fantastic and, it being the last night and therefore somehow different, I don't notice the time or whether I am tired this time. We have a couple of cocktails.
It's been a lovely last night. We head for Gemmy's car.
"Shall we just pop into Sunba?" says Gemmy.
We pop. Little do we know that by the time we pop out again it's going to be three in the morning and we are going to be, well, exuberant.
I am not quite sure how it happens. One minute we are sitting at the bar, in our customary positions surveying the dance floor and I am commenting to M that the music is good. Then there is a period in which no one is dancing but everyone wants to and my feet are not so much tapping as basically performing an increasingly more enthusiastic seated dance. I think how much I muss my girlfriends, so that we could hit the dance floor in a pack, then reason that this is just the sort of fearfulness we should be freeing ourselves from and really what is the worst thing that could happen? Some strangers I am never going to see again might not like my dancing? Or think I am fat? What is the actual consequence? What grand drama will ensue if it happens?
(Actually a note of caution - never assume you are never going to see people again. I once went to a bar with a friend and got quite silly. There was some sort of postcard we were supposed to fill out for a competition and we gave our email addresses as 'sausages@ potatoes.jam'. We bumped into the man we grinningly handed the postcard into at the supermarket the next morning.)
Either way the decision is made for me by a Russian man who is even more impatient to dance than I am and who launches himself onto the dance floor, grabs me by the hand and we are off. It's all very innocent - he just wants company so he's not doing a floor show in front of expressionless and silent teenagers - and he senses a kindred spirit. Even so, if find myself dancing with a random guy I do like to mention my husband. No sooner do I, than the Russian man's face lights up and he uses his considerable size and general magnitude to propel himself across the stage and haul M to his feet. And suddenly neither I nor M nir the Russian stranger care who's watching. Its good music, and it's really good fun.
After that, as M describes it afterwards, one minute no one is dancing, there's a brief period where it's just us and then EVERYONE is dancing. And M and I go crazy.
We don't leave that dancefloor till Gemmy must have dragged us out again. Neither of us is wearing shoes, having abandoned them long before. Flips flips and sandals - in fact footwear in general - only hinders the Importance Of The Dance. We twirl and dip and bob and jump in our increasingly blackened bare feet (it will take us 3 days of showering to finally get our soles back to a human shade of pink).
It is incredible fun. We are, at least for now, the most brilliant dancers anyone has ever seen. We ARE the music. And, far from being slightly in awe of those cool fresh faced teenagers with their 18 years of youthfulness and vigour, we are freeing them from all that pouting and posing. We are showing them what real fun looks like, when it's at home. We are In Da House.
We are probably quite drunk.
But I don't like to think that's all it is. My memories of that night are not hazy, they are clear and vivid. And we had so much fun. I will tell you one thing, there's nothing more brilliant than dancing with your husband and being without a doubt that he is the best dancer in the house and that you want nothing more than to go home with him tonight.
Even so. We have been content to watch sagely from behind a pint, getting rather more obviously excited at the sight of another gekko than the prospect of seeing in the early hours and expressing our love of the Langkawi jungle through the medium of interpretive dance.
Today though, is our last evening. And, though at no point do we quite expect it, it's, well, a little different.
We make a plan to go out for dinner with Gemmy. He takes us to a place on the beach and we watch the sunset as we eat. It's our last evening, I think so I order a second glass of wine.
"What was your favourite place to go on an evening on Langkawi?" asks Gemmy as we sit back, contented.
Probably home, with its backdrop of the jungle, and cats and beer on tap, but I sense that's not quite what Gemmy means so I think about the various 'nights out' with Gemmy on the tourist side of the island.
"Probably that place with the 13 ringitt cocktails" I decide.
Said place is a small bar outside a 7 eleven. It's unassuming but generous, in price, in measures and in happy ambience.
"We'll go there then" says Gemmy, clapping his hands together.
Off we go. The company is fantastic and, it being the last night and therefore somehow different, I don't notice the time or whether I am tired this time. We have a couple of cocktails.
It's been a lovely last night. We head for Gemmy's car.
"Shall we just pop into Sunba?" says Gemmy.
We pop. Little do we know that by the time we pop out again it's going to be three in the morning and we are going to be, well, exuberant.
I am not quite sure how it happens. One minute we are sitting at the bar, in our customary positions surveying the dance floor and I am commenting to M that the music is good. Then there is a period in which no one is dancing but everyone wants to and my feet are not so much tapping as basically performing an increasingly more enthusiastic seated dance. I think how much I muss my girlfriends, so that we could hit the dance floor in a pack, then reason that this is just the sort of fearfulness we should be freeing ourselves from and really what is the worst thing that could happen? Some strangers I am never going to see again might not like my dancing? Or think I am fat? What is the actual consequence? What grand drama will ensue if it happens?
(Actually a note of caution - never assume you are never going to see people again. I once went to a bar with a friend and got quite silly. There was some sort of postcard we were supposed to fill out for a competition and we gave our email addresses as 'sausages@ potatoes.jam'. We bumped into the man we grinningly handed the postcard into at the supermarket the next morning.)
Either way the decision is made for me by a Russian man who is even more impatient to dance than I am and who launches himself onto the dance floor, grabs me by the hand and we are off. It's all very innocent - he just wants company so he's not doing a floor show in front of expressionless and silent teenagers - and he senses a kindred spirit. Even so, if find myself dancing with a random guy I do like to mention my husband. No sooner do I, than the Russian man's face lights up and he uses his considerable size and general magnitude to propel himself across the stage and haul M to his feet. And suddenly neither I nor M nir the Russian stranger care who's watching. Its good music, and it's really good fun.
After that, as M describes it afterwards, one minute no one is dancing, there's a brief period where it's just us and then EVERYONE is dancing. And M and I go crazy.
We don't leave that dancefloor till Gemmy must have dragged us out again. Neither of us is wearing shoes, having abandoned them long before. Flips flips and sandals - in fact footwear in general - only hinders the Importance Of The Dance. We twirl and dip and bob and jump in our increasingly blackened bare feet (it will take us 3 days of showering to finally get our soles back to a human shade of pink).
It is incredible fun. We are, at least for now, the most brilliant dancers anyone has ever seen. We ARE the music. And, far from being slightly in awe of those cool fresh faced teenagers with their 18 years of youthfulness and vigour, we are freeing them from all that pouting and posing. We are showing them what real fun looks like, when it's at home. We are In Da House.
We are probably quite drunk.
But I don't like to think that's all it is. My memories of that night are not hazy, they are clear and vivid. And we had so much fun. I will tell you one thing, there's nothing more brilliant than dancing with your husband and being without a doubt that he is the best dancer in the house and that you want nothing more than to go home with him tonight.
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