Just like John Travolta.

On Saturday Night, Father A and I went out partying. All around us there were women dressed in clothes so minimal, I was tempted to borrow them to blow my nose on. Not that I was jealous considering the clothes I wear could be draped over a table for a fancy Sunday lunch. I believe in minimal dressing. India is a very hot country. And Bangalore's weather isn't what it used to be.

There isn't much place to dance on a Saturday Night. About all you can do is what I call Saturday Night Duck Face. You know. You've done it. Lips in exaggerated pout. Like your best friend's 90-yr old grandfather in law when he tries to kiss you hello. Except that in Saturday Night Duck Face, the pout doesn't tremble like jelly in the long distance to your outstretched cheek. The neck has to jut out in time to the music. Are you doing it? Now to the beat.

Saturday Night Duck Face.

Anyone can do Saturday Night Duck Face. The Lord knows I didn't invent it. He also knows that I never thought I'd be doing it. Because, at five feet one and half inch, I have to be careful where I aim Saturday Night Duck Face.

Just so I don't end up keeping time to someones armpit hair vibration.