Last Sunday, we had a young politico in our midst, a guy who has been celebrated a wee bit too prematurely, I fear. A little birdie mentioned that this young gun hangs frequents the place, a lot, mostly because most quests are affluent, rich or snooty (sometimes all three), to really hobnob, ask for autographs, et al.
He wore a pair of jeans, T-shirt with collar and casual shoes, and though he does posses quintessential good looks as deemed by Indian standards (fair, not fat), he does not have a presence or a charisma that hits you, as did his father, as did John F Kennedy, as we does Senator Mcallister of Brothers & Sisters.
A staff member candidly told me that presence of any high-profile politico is a double-edged sword. On one hand it's a good thing. On the other what if there's dynamite inside that pretty bouquet pf orchids, which are coming the politico's way?
He made no effort to mingle and he did not wax eloquent. He entered, ate, responded politely to those who spoke to him and then left. On the other hand, the security personnel, who we discovered is a colonel, was impressive with his poised countenance and swift movements, ensuring that the political party proceeded without a hitch.
Post his exit, one of the quests, this chap who sports a diamond in his ear and speaks pristine English, broke into a gig, with one of the girls in the gang. There was lots of jiving, and suddenly they were joined by another member of their party, this quaint-looking fellow who sports a white suit and brown leather boots and his quite a funky vision, as he scrunching his facial features, whilst doing a vigourous jitterbug-eqse dance. He's agile and swoops all over the place, which leads one to believe that he must be the kinky type, in the sack.
The ABBA song, which seems made to lift sagging spirits, is Dancing Queen. Men or women, straight or queer, pre-pubescent or crochety, all dig the dancing queen.
