Jerome, take my hand

Let’s dance.

The father of cognitive psychology is walking from the dancefloor; his suited shoulders falling and rising through pulsing shards of disco. So strange to think of him having danced under this dappling, mirrorball of light with Bowie, Prince, Lemmie, Corbett, Wood and Wogan (Wogan most of all).

The music is slowing. And it just won’t do to retire from romance. So in the spirit of story and song, I say, “Jerome, take my hand.” And I turn him about.

Scaffolding plays: his greatest hit, and a hymn to our holding by the elbows of a newly-walking child.

Scaffolding: the song, with its iambic baddum, which became the soundtrack to a daughter cycling away from us for a last first time.

“Jerome, take my hand.”

The Spiral Curriculum: a seasonal favourite, returning and returning.  Older, we would greet it with growing understanding and grace.

The Spiral Curriculum: a finely-turned heel, the one still and crisp image amidst a smear of dancing bodies.

“Jerome, take my hand.”

The dancefloor is a waltz of lads become lasses – confusing these days. But on we dance and our smiles broaden and blur together like a late, messy kiss.

Hung up on romancing, we tell stories to the last; and will, until we succumb to the prediliction of rats. For tonight, defiant, we are our stories in all their symmetrical flourish.

“Jerome, take my hand.”

Let me scaffold your frailty and brave you a final pirouette, before this night curtsies to a watch-tapping God.


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