How long had it been?

Well, excluding her sister’s wedding, it had probably been about twenty years. This side of Irish culture she dreaded. It sometimes reminded her of the final day of a wake – a social obligation full of decrepit neighbours and relatives inhaling tea and sandwiches. The well laid out corpse of tradition and better days past, stinking up the room while the inevitable was only hours away; it would not be long before many of the attendees were in the ground right along with it.

Nora’s memories and opinion of céilí sessions had remained unaltered, and she scoffed at how futile it seemed beyond the nostalgia for those who were reared with it. As for everyone else, one could make an educated guess as to why they went at all. If you were under the age of forty and childless, your mother most likely asked you to accompany her. If you were under the age of eighteen however, it was imperative that you made an appearance, so the old folks could get a good look at you, check you for any resemblance to your grandparents, then reward you with cola and crisps.

The jigs and reels played on a loop in her head like the warped cassette tapes the dance instructor used at every session, and her cheeks flared with embarrassment at her attempt at following the steps. It did not help that her Irish was wanting at best, or that she had no sense of rhythm, or that her inability to follow instructions or accept even the smallest ounce of help, left her crippled by frustration.

In primary school, it was a minor novelty and an excuse for the teacher not to inflict the usual P.E. Friday routine on a crowd of ten-year-old “townees”. Nora recalled looking around at her classmates as they partly listened to the instructor explain a basic aon-dó-trí.  Each of them disoriented and grimacing. He was a lean little man about fifty odd, with frosty white hair and a warm lively disposition – a Fred Astaire of Irish dancing for all appearances.

As she made her way to the townhall, a hint of that same primary school dread crossed her mind. This time it would hopefully be different. There was always hope, right? As she crossed the threshold, she marvelled at how unchanged the old instructor appeared by time and was strangely comforted by the familiar friendly timbre of his voice explaining the same dance steps from all those years ago.