How Quarkman got his Groove Back

I was taking a shower last night with music blaring on through from the next room, when on spun The Hustle. Now The Soul City Symphony's signature strains always set me a-swingin'. I don't know how the original dance is supposed to go, but getting down with a bit of bad-ass impro never seems amiss.

Alas, the confines and angles denied me the usual expansive manoeuvres. The jazz hand flares wouldn't fit, the pelvic thrusts were, um, problematic, and the Hammer jumps were right out. I found too that not having a belt or pockets makes one suddenly conscious of what one's doing with one's hands, and the MJ groin clutch-and-scream spectacular felt just plain unwholesome.

And yet adversity fosters inspiration. Amid the shampoo and anguish of defeat I felt the mystical ghosts of discos past surround and embolden me. Be cool, son, they said, this ain't no way to shower. And lo! from the mists emerged the first vestigial steps of the Hot Water Hustle. It's sultrier, slippier, soapier - and there are still no jumps - but it cannot be denied.

Only ever do this kind of thing if you live alone.