Line Dancing with Dolly Parton What a way to make aliving for the swap from synthetics to denim beaten soft with country music squashed into a dance line. Overtly patterned shirts blur with under-seasoned personalities as we sway, stamp, grapevine through our hour, allowing it to drive us crazy if we let it. All taking precious post-pay-packet moments, no, casting a lifeline from labour, crediting ourselves with that rare, precious honour: joy. Respiring deeply, perspiring neatly. Step two three four shuffling majestically heeled cowboy boots across a glossy varnished town hall floor. Now on borrowed time, our finite helium souls inflated once more, we resume our verse, stumble to the kitchen, reminding ourselves of our allocated fun. Lives toppedup to their measured limit, we wish, for nothing more than that one hour per week.