It's good to be a Ukrainian Cossack dancer. You get to wear the bright colorful outfits with the soft boots and the baggy breeches and show off your moves like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever while the ladies in the pretty skirts and flowers look on and swoon over you. And maybe, if you're lucky, they'll dance around you like some sort of blessing ritual. I can dream about all of it. But we have two immediate issues: killing my feet and making Princess Sherri jealous.
|A mix of your servant's favourite music|
and moves, set to stories and observations.
Any of you who dance professionally know you have to train for one of these shows like an athlete. I just wonder what the ratio of training to dancing is. And I know I'm past my prime to do it, having been around for some (2)47 years.
That doesn't stop me from dressing the part, though: