My weight shifts on to the forward foot. My arms swing up, forwards,
back. I take one step, another.
Swing. Turn. Kick. Sideways.
Like the silly little dancer who could not get out of the plastic
block; but I am moving forward little by little, even if I have to
take three steps roundabout for every one in advance.
Arms, up. Turn, round. Leg, up. Straighten, out. Step.
Called the Dance of the Little Robot, for about three months Dad
thought it was no end cute, till he caught on I was thinking so, too.
It is just about the only kind of dance you could do on shingle, I
guess.
When this started I thought I might be going crazy, but I just had not
had time to work it out. In terms of Psychology it goes like this; to
shoot off a weapon a man needs a certain type of Stimulus like the
sight of an enemy over the end of it. So if I do my best not to look
like an enemy he will not get that Stimulus. Or put it another way
most men think twice before shooting a girl in the middle of a dance.
If I should happen to get away with this, nobody will believe his
story, he won't believe it himself.
As for the chance of getting away with it, i.e., getting close enough
to grab the gun or hit him with a rock or something, I know I would
become a Stimulus to shooting before I did that but there are always
the clouds, if one will only come back over the moon again.