Communal Table

This is not your average dinner and a show.

In fact, you won’t even see the friends you planned on spending the evening with, and you’ll likely wish you hadn’t driven, so you can down more of the free-flowing champagne.

On arrival, my boyfriend is told to remove his suit coat – “you should take that off, for freedom of movement,” – the volunteer explains.

I’m immediately met with a look of concern and displeasure for promising a simple dinner together, and I already know we’re in for an interesting night, which we won’t get to spend together.

I love chatting to strangers, so for me, I really enjoyed hearing the stories of those seated beside me over a shared meal (which I might I add was delicious, even if the baba ganoush to bread ratio was off.)

I’d already learned both of their life stories before we were encouraged to start chatting.

What I don’t love, however, is sitting around a table to discuss the work we had just seen like a group of children in a classroom.

Nestled between two professional dancers, was me, who was strongly encouraged by my parents to drop ballet lessons at age 7 and take up something ‘more suited to me’ like contact sports.

While those on the table discussed the energy and the essence of the work, I sat there wondering how much longer I could endure the conversation while tossing up if two toilet breaks was two too many.

I glanced over at the table next to me, where my boyfriend – whom I’d promised a night nothing like this one – was evidently sharing similar sentiments.

It’s only in the next phase of the evening that I began to feel really sorry for him, as we are encouraged to learn a dance from the performers.

Needless to say, he kept his suit coat on.

We end the night letting go of our inhibitions and freely-moving to some house music, which I am much more well-versed in doing.

Sans pretentious arty chat and forced choreographed dancing – this was a generally good night, best served with 3+ wines and an open mind.