Tab Tries: Danger Cindies
Cindies outside of term time? SASKIA GOLDMAN ventures into the unknown…
“Cindies on a Saturday?!” I hear you cry… Madness, I know. But when you’re alone in Cambridge over the cold Christmas Vac and missing the thrills of a Wednesday night, what’s there to do but head down to a town night in Cambridge’s finest club? The students had gone, and though by day the streets were quiet, by night this was a whole new town. But how much danger would I find in so-called ‘Danger Cindies’?
Although security was tight on the Ballare door my outsider status remained under the radar. First thought: it was hot. On a Wednesday Cindies can get sticky, but tonight the bar queue was ten men deep, the dance floor was as sweaty as Life in May week, and it was an “accidental”-boob-graze-a-minute in the crowd. This was certainly dangerous. I waded to the nearest fire exit to make my escape.
This dance move was potentially very dangerous…
Back inside, I felt positively frumpy. Not only was I wearing the same amount of clothes as all the girls put together, I was about a foot shorter than them, tottering around in their heels. Heels? Most of us gave up on heels in Freshers’ week. Could this be the cause of the danger I sought?
I was jealous of these ladies, taller and more alluring than me. But I wasn’t going to let it stand in my way. Before long, a suspect group of lads approached me, encouragingly gyrating, and I indulged them in a dance in pursuit of some excitement. Jerome and his friends began to grow on me. But I soon realised- I was in no danger. I was far too over-clad and under made-up to be anything but a mock-conquest.
I soon met Kelly, who told me about her career as a tattoo artist. Little did I know that my enthusiasm would land me in trouble; before long she was eagerly eyeing-up my forearm for her next design. Despite the fact I explained I didn’t actually like Chinese dragons, she got out the smart phone and added me on facebook with the promise that it wouldn’t hurt. I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the tattoo or the facebook friendship, and while I’d found the much-rumoured danger I was looking for, the prospect of emblazoning my body with a mythical creature was a danger too far.
I’d given up on the male population as a source for my thrill-seeking, by 2am they weren’t brawling or groping anymore, merely invitingly grinding. And although Kelly had scared me off, amongst the female population there was a sense of community unrivalled on student nights- they were crying on each other’s shoulders, holding each other’s hair back, picking their friends off the floor with care. I envied this chaotic sisterhood.
Just as I was getting my coat, Jerome et al came up and asked me for a final dance. We repaired our friendship and were ready to move on. Although there was no real danger on offer, the male-to-female ratio made me feel mildly threatened, and we danced the night away like old friends. I cheekily grabbed a photo with my new mates, before a slow and pensive walk home. As I hit the Van of Life, it occurred to me: we may judge the Cambridge womanhood for their display-all dress code, but it has its uses. We may charge the Cambridge manhood with over-zealous grinding, but a good, old-fashioned grind is unlike anything else.
Danger Cindies? Pah! Tonight, I’d danced in the face of danger.