'Do your chicken dance', says W. 'Do the funky chicken'. W. likes to watch me dance. It's so improbable, he says. So graceless.
I'm a frenetic dancer, W. says. I've got ants in my pants. Isn't that what I told him: I've got ants in my pants? I tell him I never said such a thing. It's a fantasy. Never mind, W. says. – 'Do your chicken dance. Go on, cheer me up'.
He does an impression. – 'This is how you dance', W. says. 'Do you see?' He flaps his arms. He turns his knees inwards. He hops about on his feet. I can't help it, he says. He knows I can't help it …
He had ideas, the dying Bataille said, but they didn't dance for him any more. W. has no ideas, but I'm going to dance for him, aren't I? Dance, fat boy, dance!
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