Jim Hopkins: The Stormwater Polka

Wellington City mayor Celia Wade-Brown. Photo / NZ Listener

Wellington Mayor suggests councillors learn ballroom dancing to keep "mentally fit" - news item.

Painfully shy beneath that foridding exterior, she sat tense on the hard edge of the old church pew.

This wasn't a good idea. She shouldn't have come. She should have chosen some other "cognitively demanding" activity. Embroidery, perhaps, or learning to read the Chinese Hu's Hu in the original Mandarin.

Either would have strengthened her synapses. Both would have certainly helped "expand or create functional networks". Which was what Her Warship had recommended in that unwelcome email.

But no, she'd picked ballroom dancing. Silly goose, she thought, way outside your comfort zone. So far, she hadn't even exercised her feet, let alone her neural pathways.

The mournful strains of the Stormwater Polka flooded the hall. At least she knew it, even when it was being lugubriously mangled by the Planning Department's 5-piece Trio. Oh well, she mused, things never made much sense in Planning.

As the tempo quickened, a small catalogue of librarians got up to dance - but only with each other. That's how it is with librarians.

"Would you care to strengthen your synapses?" inquired a familiar voice. Startled, she turned to see who was asking. Oh, no!! It was yucky old him; leader of that other faction on Council, the one that opposed everything she supported and supported everything she opposed.

An unwanted blush flushed her cheeks and she fanned her face with the copy of Pool Fees and Charges, 2011 (as amended) she always carried.

"We could wait for a lambada," the voice suggested, sensing her discomfort. Goodness me, she thought, I never saw you as the sensitive sort, Mr Nay-saying smarty pants. Perhaps a little "connectivity" would do no harm after all.

"No, no," she mumbled, even more nonplussed than she'd been during that acrimonious debate about The Draft Solid Waste Bylaw, "we'll dance now. In for a penny, in for a pounding, as they say". He laughed, even as she felt foolish for offering so awkward a jest.

"Fear not," he chuckled. "I'll try to respect your feet more than I do your views on the creation of cycleways in low-income neighbourhoods." He led her towards the sparsely populated dance floor. As luck would have it, and it always did, the band was just finishing a piece - it sounded like the ever-popular Rates Rise Rumba - as they took up their positions.

"I'm surprised to see you here," she said, if only to fill the uncomfortable pause. "I thought you of all people would hate the Mayor bossa nova us."

"I do," he smiled, "but we should all do what we cancan. So I thought I'd trytry - if only the band would get going."

"Ladies and gentlemen, councillors and people," the band leader's baritone interrupted them, "take your partners, please, for that groovy golden oldie, the Pothole Jive." There were audible groans.

"Woops! I forgot," the band leader added. "Apologies to the traffic engineers who requested Public Transport Fandango - it's been delayed, I'm afraid. We'll get round to it later. Maybe."

The band, now boasting two Building Inspectors, a sewerage consultant and a Green space Community Engagement Officer, started up and they were off. She was impressed. He was smooth, leading in a subtle and consultative way that impressed her more than she cared to admit. Something was happening to her pathways. She didn't know what but she liked it.

They danced for what seemed like hours, effortlessly sweeping through cha chas and Charlestons, fox trots, a hornpipe, two Lindy hops, the paso doble, a slow quickstep and a raunchy schottische before finishing with an unbridled veleta.

"This as definitely more fun than embroidery," she whispered in his rather large ear. "Gosh, yes," he replied. "We should do this more often." Unexpectedly, he leant over and nibbled her lobe, as gentle as a mower on fine cut grass in a park.

Surprised, she pulled away. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I can't help myself. I've always had ... feelings for you. I knew you were the councillor for me last week when you talked about the need for bigger diameter sewer pipes. I can't hide it any longer. My biggest regret would be not saying anything. You know the quote, 'Most men lead lives of quiet desperation ..."'

"And go to the grave with the song still in them." Amazingly, she not only knew how it finished but also who'd said it. Something new and exciting was expanding her neural networks. "It can't be that way!" he cried. "We can't go to the grave with the song still in us. Maybe my faction should get into bed with your faction. What do you think?"

Her synapses may not have been strengthening but her loins were certainly stirring. "Yes," she purred, "I think that's a totally right brain idea. It would keep us both mentally fit." The sudsy notes of the final number echoed round the Memorial Hall and they slipped easily into each other's arms. It may have been the Last Waltz but she knew it was a new beginning.