Club Gricel

I forgot to mention how much I enjoyed my evening at Gricel. I like the venue, the way the tables were set out around the dance floor, the size (about the size of upstairs at Negracha), the lighting (particularly the pink neon Gricel sign above the bar) and the buzz of the place. Here, they dance in the milonguero style and there are plenty of fine Argentinian dancers, many of whom are keen to speak English and do so very well, although I wish they wouldn't as I'd sooner increase my opportunities to speak Spanish. I danced with an Argentinian Colin Firth there, and although I prefer the type in the Eyelit ads (an Argentine brand of masculine underwear), dancing with him was divine and if speaking English was the price I had to pay, then happy was I to do so. I have had a couple of lessons with Oscar (of Youtube fame) at El Beso , who teaches this style as well as one superb lesson with Puchu in a tiny village outside Buenos Aires, after the asado on Spring Day and am beginning to dance more smoothly, to respond to the lead more decoratively. I look forward to going back there.

On the way back from Gricel, I had a disturbing encounter with a radio taxi driver. I was standing at the 118 bus stop in a deserted street around 2.00 a.m., when a taxi drew up. The conversation went something like this:

'Thank you, but I don't need a taxi.'
'Get in, it's dangerous for a woman to be standing alone in a place like this.'
'I'm fine, thanks. I don't have money for a taxi and the bus will be here any minute now.'
'Don't worry about the money. I'll take you. And there is no bus, today.'
'What do you mean?'
'The 118 isn't running today, didn't you know?'
'Yes it is. Thank you for your kindness, but I'm fine. Good bye.'

He wouldn't leave. I ignored him and he still carried on talking and even opened the car door, at which point I remembered the time I was abducted by a man, who stopped to ask for a light, then dragged me into his car and locked me in. He drove from Theobald's Road in central London to somewhere near Arsenal tube station and got out on the passenger side, holding me tightly in front of him, when I swung my heel on the out breath to you know where and bolted. I was nineteen and practised taekwondo, back then. I returned to the scene later, with a policeman and was able to identify the vehicle. A happy ending. Now, I was calculating how I'd deal with this one, when the dear old 118 pulled up and I leaped aboard. The taxi sped away, tyres screaming. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember the number on his licence plate.