The show was good and my table got up and started the dancing. I yelled wise-cracks at the band between numbers, which they relished, and Margot and I continued our tradition of screaming at the top of our lungs during hot numbers. The band loved us, and during the two breaks applauded our efforts. I developed horrible blisters on the balls of my feet, but did not cease in my efforts. I danced and danced and crossed over the limit once again, shifting to high gear powered by adrenaline, living only to dance. Bill Weaver shook himself on the dance floor in a way I thought impossible for a man of his girth. I kept shouting “Louie, Louie!” as a joke, not really thinking they’d play it, since that piece is traditionally a kind of joke-number with them, only played at rare intervals, not considered a show tune. But they played it for me as an encore, and I was delighted and filled with amusement and gratitude. The band did a second encore, a fast one which just about did all of us in. I went home utterly sweaty and drained and happy, Emily’s praises of my enthusiasm still in my ears.