There was a bit of a drum roll from somewhere and the crowd at its tables set down its champagne and put its hands together.

Further to-me-to-you-ings took place and Old King Cole was shuttled from the stage. Darkness fell, then lights came up. A curtain rose to reveal musicians. Clockwork musicians, all shiny and well polished, with pressed-tin instruments, printed-on tuxedos and matching moustaches. Matching what? you might ask. And well might you ask it. There was a sax player, a pianist and a drummer, too, and then behind them a further curtain rose and as it did so a spotlight fell.

And a gasp went up from the assembled crowd.

A gasp that was joined to by Jack.

She was simply enormous,

Her frock was a circus tent,

Her chins numbered more

Than a fine cricket score,

And her weight would an anvil have bent.

Her breasts were so large, and I’ll tell you how large,

For if larger there were, none there found them,

Her breasts were so large, and I’ll tell you how large,

They had little breasts orbiting round them.

“What was that?” asked Jack.

“What was what?” asked Amelie.

“Must have been poetry, or something,” said Jack. “But that is one big woman.”

And she was. They sort of cranked Dolly Dumpling forward. There was some winching gear involved, which in itself involved certain pulleys and blocks and some behind-the-scenes unwilling help from minions (who did at least say, “To me, to you,”) and liveried personages (who considered themselves above that sort of thing). Ropes groaned and blocks and winches strained and Dolly Dumpling moved forward.

The musicians cowered before her prodigious approach, and thanked whatever Gods they favoured when the approaching was done.

A microphone did lowerings on a wire and Dolly Dumpling breathed into it.

It was a deep, lustrous, sumptuous breath, a breath that had about it a fearsome sexuality. A deeply erotic breath was this, and its effect upon the crowd was manifest.

Toffs in dinner suits loosened their ties; ladies in crinolines fluttered their fans. Jack felt a shiver go through him.

Dolly Dumpling rippled as she breathed. It was a gentle rippling, but it, too, had its effect. That such a creature, of such an exaggerated size, could achieve such sensuality with a single breath and a bit of body rippling, seemed to Jack beyond all comprehension, but it was something, something extraordinary. Yet it was nothing, nothing at all, when set against the effect her voice had when that fat lady sang.

There are voices. And then there are VOICES and then there is SOMETHING MORE. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, well, when it does, IT DOES.

Jack’s champagne glass was almost at his lips. And that is where it stayed, unmoving, throughout Dolly Dumpling’s first song. And it never reached Jack’s lips at all even after that, because at the conclusion of the song Jack set it down to use his hands for clapping. And this went on, again and again and again.

How she reached the notes she did and how she held them there were matters beyond discussion and indeed comprehension. How she achieved what she achieved may indeed never be known. And when she breathed, “Please do all get up and dance,” then all got up and danced.

The dancefloor wasn’t large but now it filled and as Dolly Dumpling’s voice soared and swooped and brought notes beyond notes and sensations with them that were beyond, the crowd swayed and shimmied, trembled and danced. How they danced!

Jack took Amelie in his arms and although having no skills at all as a dancer, shimmied and swayed with the rest. And waltzed, too. And then did that jazz-dance sort of thing that can’t really be described and which you either can do, or can’t. And Jack couldn’t. Dinner suits and crinoline. Slicked-back hair and coiffured coils. Menfolk and womenfolk. Jack and a dolly. Around and around and around.

Love and magic in the air, enchantment and wonderment and joy, joy, happy joy.

And.

“I say, chap, careful where you’re treading.”

“Sorry,” said Jack to his fellow dancer. Then he did a bit of a dip and a flourish and then had a little kiss with Amelie. “Isn’t this wonderful?” said Jack as he twirled the dolly round. And Amelie shook her preposterous front parts and blew some kisses to Jack.

And Dolly Dumpling’s voice rose and fell and the band was pretty good, too.

And “Careful, chap, what you’re doing there,” said that fellow again.

“It’s crowded,” Jack called to the fellow that he had just stepped upon for a second time. “Sorry, just enjoy.”

“Lout,” said the fellow’s partner. Loud enough to be heard for a fair circle round. “Disgusting, coming in here with that thing.”

Jack stiffened in mid-second dip and approaching kiss and said, “What did you say?”

“She said, ‘Disgusting’,” said the fellow, “lowering the tone of this establishment.”

“What?” went Jack.

“Leave it,” said Amelie.

“No, I won’t leave it.” Jack turned to confront the fellow. A very dapper fellow, he was, probably some son or close relative of a prominent P.P.P. “What is your problem?” asked Jack, in the manner of one who didn’t know.

“You know well enough,” said the fellow. “Bringing that thing in here and flaunting it about.”

“That thing,” said Jack, “is my girlfriend.” The words “is my girlfriend”, however, were not heard by the fellow Jack had spoken to, because, at the conclusion of the word “thing”, Jack had thrown a punch at the fellow, which had caught him smartly upon the jaw and sent him floorwards in an unconscious state. Most rapidly.

“Monster!” screamed the fellow’s partner, and screaming so set upon Jack.

Most violently.

At least in a bar brawl you know where you are.

There are so many moments in life when you really don’t know where you are. Where you stand, how you’re fixed, what you’re up against and so on and so forth and suchlike. Life can be tricky like that. It builds you up and it knocks you down. The build-up is generally slow, but it leads to overconfidence. The knocking down is swift and it comes out of nowhere. And it hurts.

But at least in a bar brawl you know where you are.

You generally have a choice of three places. Right in the thick of it, getting hammered or doing the hammering. Just on the periphery, where a stray fist or flying bottle is likely to strike you. Or right on the edge, at the back of the crowd, which is the best place to be. You can always climb up on a chair and enjoy the action without too much danger of taking personal punishment.

Back of the crowd is definitely the best place to be in a bar brawl.

In life, well, that’s another matter, but in a bar brawl, it’s the back. You know where you are at the back.

Jack was not at the back. For Jack was indeed the epicentre. And when it came right down to it, Jack was not a fighter. He was rarely one to swing the first fist and why he had done this now troubled him. But not so much as the other thing troubled him. This other thing being the handbag that was repeatedly striking his head. The partner of the fellow Jack had floored was going at Jack as one possessed. And possessed of a strong right arm.

Jack sheltered his head with his hands and yelled, “Stop!” But the violence ceased to do so. And Jack’s shout of, “Stop!” echoed hollowly through the air, for the music had ceased and the dancing had ceased and all conversation likewise had ceased and all eyes were upon Jack.

And then Amelie swung a handbag of her own and floored Jack’s attacker.