by Wendy Newton
If only the floorboards could speak.
I'm at Stompin's 21st birthday book launch waiting for Premier Giddings to arrive and someone mentions the floor. How it needs funding for repairs. I look past my boots (embarrassed that I've only just realised they're muddy and the Premier will be here any minute) to the scuffmarks, scratches, gouges, the sgraffito of dance history that leaves its legacy etched in Braille on the pine. Stories on the boards.
It's a pity they'll disappear. It's only sanding that's needed, I'm told.