He was absolutely tearing up the place with his dance moves. Oh, man – these squares had never seen moves like this. They couldn’t keep up. They’d cleared the dancefloor for him. He had all the space he wanted. He was strutting like a peacock. He was grooving like some kind of groovy dance god. He w- FLURP! Oh, no. There was no dancefloor. There was only his bedroom, if you could call a gap between two big bins with a cardboard roof a bedroom. He wasn’t strutting now. In fact, his sole concern now was to get up without smearing the turd into his clothes and sleeping bag worse than it already was.
Tag: grooving
Into the groove
She was bopping. He was grooving. Another chap was beginning to shuffle. Now they needed a fourth, and here she came, robot dancing her way over and only losing her mechanical composure when she trod on a hot turd that everyone else had found it easy enough to avoid.