Rhythm. I don't have much, but what little I have finds it very hard to resist a marching band.
I blame my mum who, every year, dressed me up and had me follow the Mablethorpe Carnival Parade: Aged 4 - Little Bo Peep; Aged 5 - Mary Mary (quite contrary); Aged 6 - Turkish Delight girl; Aged 7 - Water Tap (hey there was a water a shortage, and I won Best in Parade for that outfit) and Aged 8 - Anne Boleyn (posthumous).
Then I was too old to be cute and so I proudly followed bearing a flag and wearing a Brownie and then Girl Guide uniform. I like uniforms too, but that's a whole other post.
Anyway I caught a few minutes of the St Patrick's Day Parade in Nottingham - long enough to take a bad photo (above) and resist the seductive pull of several marching bands. If I had let myself go I might still be lost; lying under bushes somewhere in darkest Nottinghamshire, mussed and twitching, with bits of green crepe paper in my hair.
