Liz Thurlow, Part Six: Tony Unblocks her Pipes

As soon as Bob was out of sight Liz pelted next door to Jan’s house. She was standing in the front yard, making a show of watering the garden, when she spied Tony’s Ute turning into her street. He pulled into the driveway and jumped out, those shorts riding up again and flashing his thigh. She felt her heart tip-tilt. Her stomach clenched.

Tony sauntered towards her. ‘So! Liz. We meet again.’ he smiled that mischievous grin. She grinned back, the wave of adrenalin rushing through her body making her feel giddy, like a schoolgirl with a crush on teacher.

Another truck was trundling up the street. Tony turned towards the sound.

‘Ah! my workers. Good timing.’

Liz’s heart plummeted. ‘Oh . . .  I imagined you worked alone.’

‘Yeh. I work alone Liz,’ he grinned again, ‘these guys just scaffolders. This job. I mus’ work high.’ he glanced at her watering. ‘Don’ water around the back – okay? Better if ground is dry for put up scaffolding.’

The next morning Liz was back watering Jan’s garden when Tony pulled into the driveway. This time he was alone. He made small talk with her before unloading he Ute. She watched him drag out his tools and take them around the rear of the house. Back and forward, from the Ute to the backyard. She tried to look discreet, but she was fixated on his athletic body.

It was the same every morning for the rest of the week. The garden was getting a good soaking. And each morning their conversation went a little longer.

By the following Monday morning Liz was in a state as she waited for him to pull in. She had been agitated all weekend, impatient with Bob’s habits and imagining how Tony Babic might compare. She kept smoothing her hair, straightening her clothes, her stomach doing cartwheels, until he arrived, a little later than usual, but looking as relaxed as ever.

‘Liz,’ he said, ‘I been thinking. How come you water the garden by hand?’ his eyes were twinkling as if he knew a private joke. ‘There is irrigation, ne?’ He pointed at the black plastic poles sticking out of the soil.

‘Um, they’re blocked,’ Liz stammered.

‘Well, tell you what Liz. You ask me in for morning smoko, and I fix irrigation. Hows zat? So you don’ have to spend so much time watering. Pretty lady like you, got better things to do with her time, ne?’

Liz’s heart was pounding. Her throat felt so constricted, it took a moment to answer.

‘Deal?’ he prodded.

‘Deal,’ she nodded.

And it was that easy. Every morning he came in for coffee and chat, staying a little longer each time. And by the next Monday, he was in her bed. Liz had dreamt of it all weekend. A new start to a new week. It seems this pretty lady had certainly found something better to do with her time.


This is the sixth part in a story building exercise for character, Liz Thurlow.

To read from part one, go here



Liz Thurlow, Part Five: The Anticipation of Tony Babic

Bob’s habits irritated Liz, but not so much that she would ever leave him. It is not as if he was violent or abusive. He was just, well, boring. Besides, Liz was fifty now. She didn’t want to start over again, leave her house and her comfortable life. She’d never be able to afford to live in Killara as a single woman, and God forbid she would have to look for work. No, Liz craved an adventure, but not one that took her too far out of her comfort zone.

Liz would have been surprised if anyone pointed it out – but she had become a creature of habit herself. One morning a week at the local tennis club, three at the gym. Washing on Monday, ironing on Tuesday, housework on Wednesday and groceries on Friday. She was a lousy gardener, so she had a ‘man’ who came once a fortnight, but he insisted on her watering regularly. In the early morning, he stipulated, before the sun gets too hot. So she had added that to her regular routine, until she realised an irrigation system and timer could do the job just as well. But now there was Jan’s to look to.

Her day started at 6am. While Bob showered and shaved, she laid out his clothes and packed his lunch. When she heard him cleaning out his shaver, she put his two weet-bix with prunes and yoghurt in a bowl, and waited to greet him in the kitchen. She had given up asking if he wanted a cooked breakfast. Bob kept those for his weekend treat. At 6.45am he would put his bowl in the sink, give her a peck on the lips – so fleeting it was almost as if he was a teenager begrudging his mother a speck of affection – grab his briefcase from the kitchen bench and stride out the front door. It was a fifteen minute march to the railway station. Bob commuted, even though his position entitled him to a city parking space. Bob fancied this brisk fifteen minute burst of energy morning and evening was all he needed to stay in shape. Liz didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t working.

Liz drummed her fingers on the kitchen bench. His shave seemed to be taking longer than usual. Hurry up. Her foot jiggled on the tiled floor. Get a move on. She checked her watch against the digital clock on the microwave. 6.25.

When Bob appeared a few minutes later, he stopped in the doorway and stared at her.


‘Oh nothing. Just I don’t often see you so glammed up on washing day. And aren’t you going to the gym?’

Damn. He’d noticed. She hadn’t counted on that. She’d gone for the Jackie Onassis smart casual look. A slim fit short-sleeved top over figure-hugging white Capri pants and ballet flats which showed off her long narrow feet.

‘I’m on a mercy mission. One of the tennis ladies is having a scan today. Breast scan. She got a call back. Wanted a buddy along . . .  doesn’t want to be alone in case its bad news.

‘Anyone I know?’

‘No, no.’ hurry up. She watched him swallow a mouthful of cereal.

‘Not Dot? Her husband would be gutted if she got cancer.’

‘No. Look, it’s no one you know. A new woman. I’m just helping out, that’s all. She doesn’t know her way around here yet.’ It was all Liz could do to stop her foot tapping. Hurry up.

‘What time will be you be leaving?’ Bob was crossing to the sink with his bowl. Finally.

‘Oh . . . soonish. I’ll just get a load on first.’

‘Well,’ he leant over to give her his mummy kiss, ‘don’t forget that builder chap is starting today. I told Jan you’d keep an eye on him.’

‘Thanks for the reminder,’ Liz feigned surprise, ‘I’d forgotten him. Had this appointment on my mind.’

‘Well. You might just check he’s under way before you take off. He should be along any tick of the clock now.’

‘Mmmmm . . . okay, well. So long as he gets here soon,’ she strived to keep her voice casual, disinterested. ‘And if you don’t get a wriggle on, you’ll miss your train.’

‘I could wait and get the next one. If you think you won’t be here for the builder, that is.’


‘No, no. Didn’t you say you had an early meeting too? You get off. Builders start early. He’s probably just around the corner.’ she was at the front door with Bob now, practically pushing him out.

‘As you command, madam,’ Bob gave a little laugh and an exaggerated bow and set off down the street – whistling.

If Liz had not been so distracted, she might have thought his behaviour a little odd. But Liz was too busy craning out for any sign of Tony Babic. She breathed a sigh of relief when Bob was finally out of sight.


This is the fifth part in a story building exercise for character, Liz Thurlow.

To read from part one, go here



Liz Thurlow, Part Four: Liz Keeps a Note

Tony was standing there with his hand outstretched. Liz could hardly snub him, could she? His grip was firm – Liz liked that. She hated those insipid handshakes of women who just rested their fingers, like a limp dead fish. The only thing she hated more was the air kisses of the ladies at the tennis club. ‘Daaaahling, you’re looking so well!‘ . . . mwaahh, mwaahh, blowing one towards each cheek, as if they were European socialites. Liz was tempted to kiss them three times, Arabic style, muttering ‘Father, Son and Holy Ghost‘ under her breath. That would rock them. And she knew damn well that ‘looking well,’ was their code for ‘have you put on weight?’ She was sick of the whole damned scene.

‘. . .  and . . . you?’

Oh my God – she was still holding his hand. His eyes were dancing, teasing her. He was waiting for her to introduce herself.

‘Missus . . . uh . . . Liz . . .  Liz Thurlow.’

‘Well, I am pleased meet you, Missus Liz Thurlow. Maybe we see some more of each other, ne? If Jan, she like my quote.’

He was still staring at her with those teasing eyes, his mouth curling in a smile. ‘Uh . . . okay. Yes . . .  maybe . . .  if Jan likes your quote,’ she was standing there awkwardly, flustered for no good reason, ‘well . . . okay . . . uh . . . well, things to do, you know. So! . . . well, perhaps we will meet again . . .’

As she walked away down the side of the house, she could feel his eyes following her. Damn me if she didn’t wiggle her hips a little.

She paused at the rear of his ute, memorising his mobile number which was painted on tailgate. ‘Just in case‘, she told herself. Back in her house, she added the number to the note with his vehicle details.

 – – – – – – – – -

Bob was home on the dot of 6.30pm, the same as always. He greeted her with a peck on the cheek and poured them each a drink. ‘Did a builder come to Jan’s today?’

Liz took a gulp of her drink. ‘Yeeeessss.’

‘Oh good! She wants to get some work done while she is away. Hope his quote is good. Did he look professional?’

‘Yeeessss . . . How do you know about it?’

‘Jan emailed me at work.’

‘Why you? How come she didn’t email me? I’m the one who’s home.’

‘Beats me. S’pose she could be sure I saw the email. You wouldn’t always have the computer on.’

‘Well why didn’t she text me? it would’ve been helpful to know he was coming.’

‘You’re asking me how a woman’s mind works? How would I know? She just did, that’s all. I’ll let her know tomorrow.’ Bob had already turned away, was switching the TV on for the seven o’clock news. ‘Dinner on time?’

Bob liked to watch the news while they ate, and he didn’t like chit-chat, especially not during the sports report. Then he would switch to the living room television while she cleaned up and he drank a few beers. Tonight was just the same as always. It wasn’t long before Liz heard him snoring. He’d start with the snuffling and snorting, and work up to the chain saw rattling. Usually she sat with him in the living room with the television sound full up, but somehow she felt that tonight she couldn’t bear it. Everything was just the same as always, except that Liz felt different, unsettled somehow. She couldn’t put her finger on it.

She’d go to bed with a good book. The women at the tennis club joked that was better than sex. Liz didn’t have much to compare it with. Hadn’t been much sex in their house for months – she couldn’t rightly remember the last time.

Her handbag was on the kitchen bench. As she reached for it, her eye fell on the note with Tony Babic’s details. ‘So much for neighbourhood watch,’ she thought, ‘Jan could have saved me the bother.’ She screwed it into a ball and threw it towards the bin. She missed.

In the next room, Bob’s snoring was like an out of tune orchestra. She felt a rush of irritation. Every night the same routine.

My bloody crap boring life. My bloody, bloody, oh so crap life.

The note was lying on the floor. She stepped over to pick it up and throw it in the bin. But she didn’t. She picked it up all right. But then she lay it on the kitchen bench, smoothed it, folded it, and put it in her purse. She didn’t know why. She just did, that’s all.


This is thefourth part in a story building exercise for character, Liz Thurlow.

To read part one, go here, part two, go here, part three, go here







Liz Thurlow Meets Tony Babic

Liz was back at her front window just in time to catch a glimpse of Tony Babic as he strolled around to the rear of Jan’s house. Already she was thinking of him by name, when in reality she had no idea who he was. Or why he was casing out her neighbour’s house.

Liz hesitated, not knowing what to do. Should she confront him? It was secluded around the back of the house, out of sight of other neighbours. What if he turned on her, hit her, or stabbed her? She could be lying there for hours waiting for help and no one would know. Liz had agreed to water Jan’s garden, not fight off intruders. Best just stay in the house and keep an eye on what he was up to. Surely it would be enough that she could give police a description and the vehicle details.

But something about Tony Babic had stirred Liz’s curiosity. When asked about it later, she couldn’t explain it. She couldn’t even explain it to herself. Call it boredom. Her bloody life was so damn ordinary. Repetitive. Predictable. She was sick of playing it safe.

She pocketed her keys and eased her front door closed. That’s silly, she thought, why am I creeping around? Best to look assertive. She squared her shoulders, strode across her lawn and marched down the side of Jan’s house. Look assertive, look assertive.

‘Are you looking for someone?’ she spoke at his back. She meant to sound imperious, but her voice wobbled, squeaked on the ‘someone’.

He swung around, and she took a step backwards. ‘Shit!’ Then he recovered himself. ‘Oh . . . sorry lady, you surprise me.’ Liz couldn’t quite place his guttural accent. Russian, maybe.

‘I said – are you looking for someone?’

‘Me? No, no. I here to look at house for lady.’

‘You mean the owner.’

‘Thas right. She call me come take a look for some changes she wans. Fix it up a little.’

Liz was about to say that Jan was away for three months. Then she thought better of that.

‘She is not home today.’

‘Oh yeah. She tell me. Gone for a few months. Wan some things fixed up. She tell me just a little job. But it look to me like she wanna fix a lot.’ A smile was playing around the corners of his mouth as he spoke, and Liz had the feeling that he was appraising her. From the top of her long blonde hair, pulled back into a neat pony tail, all the way down to her long tanned legs, shown off to their best in her short tennis skirt.

Liz stared him full in the face, trying to look as if she could intimidate him, but it was if their eyes were locked. His were so dark brown, and framed in thick lashes. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such expressive eyes on a man. These were the eyes of a poet, like Khalil Gibran, or perhaps an actor, like Omar Sharif. These were not the eyes of a builder, at least, no builder she had ever met.

But those thighs, well they were another thing. They were the muscular thighs of a man who worked out, or maybe, a man who worked outside. She broke off her stare, shifted her gaze into the distance as if she had lost interest in the conversation, and all the time she held those thighs there in her peripheral vision.

He broke the spell, outstretching his hand to shake hers, ‘Tony Babich . . .builder.‘  His grin had a cheeky edge, as if he had read her thoughts.

This is the third part in a story building exercise for character, Liz Thurlow.

To read part one, go here

To read part two, go here.

Liz Thurlow Does Her Civic Duty

I’ve decided to have a bit of fun with Liz Thurlow, my character from Saturday’s Story Planning workshop, and will devote some upcoming posts to her. I have not planned out what she is going to do. I am thinking of this as an experiment in letting a character have their head and see where it leads. If you need to catch up, you can read the first part here. Thank you to all who gave me feedback from that first story, and for urging me to go on. Hope you enjoy the journey. I’ll try to keep each episode under five hundred words for a quick read.

Liz frowned. She knew her neighbour was away. When her husband had died suddenly, choking on the toasted ham and cheese sandwich that he’d grabbed and gobbled before he realised it was too hot to swallow, Jan, the neighbour, had changed. Took up tap dancing, went about the place singing and tip-tapping, started having her dance friends in for bubbles and brioche. Then she bought a camper van and announced she was ‘going on the road.’

‘Gone off to find herself,’ Bob had scoffed sarcastically. Bob’s idea of a holiday was two weeks in a caravan park. But he wasn’t a creature of habit, oh no, because they went to a different park every holiday. It was all the same to Liz. Cooking, cleaning and washing in one caravan was much the same as another. And none of it was much different to home – just less convenient. She’d put up with it all these years because she thought it would do the kids good to get away from their indoors lives and electronic toys, but the moment they moved away to uni they had stopped coming.

‘Since it’s just the two of us now,’ she’d said to Bob, ‘what about a trip to Hawaii?’

‘Hawaii? Why would you want to go all that way? We’ve got sun, sand and surf here. We’ve got Hawaii minus the airfare!’ he’d looked smug, pleased with his smart observation. Liz knew he thought it made him sound witty.

So with Jan away, why was this builder in her driveway? Liz was a founding member of neighbourhood watch, although no one came to meetings any more. Being home during the day meant she could keep a close eye on everything going on in her street, and others relied on her to note anything out of the ordinary. It was her civic duty, you could say.

Tony Babic, the builder, was 5’10”. She could say that with certainty because she was only a couple of inches shorter. Aged somewhere between forty and fifty, she couldn’t be sure. He had dark close-cropped hair, greying at the side and temples, and crinkling at the tips. The kind of hair which would grow curly if it was left longer. He was lean, not skinny, muscular lean – maybe around eighty-five kilos she guessed. His shorts were a snug fit, showing off a rounded bottom . . . and those thighs.

She took all this in as she watched him staring up at the front of the house. He paced back and forward, all the time craning up to the second storey.

‘What if he’s looking for a way to break in?’ she thought. She remembered the key point of neighbourhood watch. Note the vehicle details . . . It was a ute really, not a van. A white Toyota Hi-Lux, registration I BLD 4U. She ran to the kitchen and scribbled it on a piece of paper.




Story Planning and Design

The highlight of my week has been attending a workshop on Story Planning and Design. In fact, I am just back from Sydney, ninety minutes up the road, which in Australian is expressed as “just around the corner”.

Since my first manuscript took seventeen “tinkerings” (I can’t say that each of them was a complete rewrite), then I guess it is time I learnt some rules before embarking on my next project, which I hope to be an historical novel. Although – I have just started working on a travel memoir to fill in the gaps until I feel I have done enough research for the novel.

It was a very compressed course – after all, what can one expect from five hours? We did, however, address the main issues: character, plot, theme, setting, point of view, voice and genre. We got to take the face of a man and woman and characterise them: give them a name, description, personality and so on. By the end of the day, we got to give them a storyline, book blurb and opening page.

At lunch, another writer and I got into a conversation about what a delicious word is “crap”, and how we are grateful to our older brothers for inadvertently introducing us to it when we were so very young and impressionable. Inevitably, that conversation re-surfaced in my writing. I can’t apologise. If I start apologising now for everything I may write in the future, then I may  never write another word again. I can only hope it does not cause too much offence :-) Please consider yourself warned.

The room was 80/20 in favour of the females. It was surprising how many of the women despatched the male character. One dealt with him by putting rat poison in the home-baked pastry. She is a writer of flash fiction, so he was done and dusted in the first page. Another’s female character was into sharpening the knives, in preparation for the day she couldn’t cope with the twentieth call of ‘are you making a cuppa?’ Unfortunately, she had a slip with it in the kitchen, and he didn’t bother to tear himself away from watching the football to help stop the blood flow. There was a lot of blood flowing today. Another story started with a domestic violence scene. Let’s hope those two female characters get justice by the end of the novel.

We each had a book in front of us and were asked to fashion our ‘back of the book’ blurb around that example. Then were asked to select an opening line from about twenty on offer. We had fifteen minutes to write.

I always find this writing on the spot confrontational. I don’t suppose I am alone in that. But thanks to regular blogging, and reading the efforts of some of the bloggers I follow who are into flash fiction, I find it a little easier now.

So without any tidying up, here is what I came up with.


Liz Thurlow leads a comfortable life in Sydney’s leafy north shore. She has it all, successful husband, two children and beautiful house. But she is bored and hungry for change. When Tony Babic enters her life – a working class builder with an eye for the beautiful ladies – she is drawn to him, and to the excitement of an illicit affair. When her husband discovers them together, Liz’s life is changed forever. For the better. . . But it takes a murder first.

Opening (the bolded sentence is what I had to work from)

She was restless and more than a little bored. Liz Thurlow’s life was comfortable. Comfortable, safe and predictable. Twenty-five years married to Bob: Bob the banker, not Bob the builder. Two kids in uni, one of each type. The five-bedroom mansion in leafy Killara, every room professionally decorated, just like Liz, with her designer clothes moulding into her gym-toned body. She had it all.

But Liz was bored. So bored. She voiced it in her head. It’s crap. It’s all such crap. She liked the sound of it, tried it out on her tongue. My life is crap . . . Bloody crap . . . My bloody life is bloody crap. How she’d love to try that out on the old biddies a the tennis club. Bugger, bugger, bugger, my life is bloody crap. That would raise an eyebrow or two.

What if I told them it was effing bloody crap? Could I? she thought.

She was just getting her lips around the ‘eff’ when she noticed the van. It was trundling up the road towards her house. She imagined it was going to come straight into her driveway when at the last moment it swerved into her neighbour’s. She read the sign on the side: “Tony Babic Builder”.

She watched the driver jump out with an agile movement, saw the flash of a muscular thigh as his shorts rode up.

- and so ended my fifteen minutes -


When the Kids are away, then the Grown Ups can play

After a two week break, NSW kidlets returned to school yesterday. Luckily for us, we were able to have grandchildren #3 and #4 stay with us last week. We don’t see enough of them, but whenever they stay they are happy to go along for the ride; they never have any shyness or awkwardness with us. They are very good kids, and even though they tell me they fight, I assure them – sincerely – that all they are doing is negotiating. It is impossible to expect that they will both want to do the same thing at the same time, but their diverse ambitions are quickly brought to a win-win decision. And we have so much on-site to do – before we even venture afield – that is not hard to bring them to a quick compromise.

The boy, CA, who is almost ten, turned up with his PlayStation. We set it up on the small television in our bedroom.  I don’t know why we have this spare TV, because our eyesight has become too unfocused to be able to see it clearly, which is bad news considering I have a penchant for sub-titled movies. As well, Bill drops off to sleep straight away, so he is a lost cause. Oh! Now I remember! We decided we slept so well in front of the tellie in the lounge room, that we just had to get one of those for the bedroom! ha ha de ha.

Anyway, CA banged away on the PlayStation for the first couple of hours of his visit. It seemed to require a lot of repetitively pressing a button on his joystick handthingy – no particular skill involved, unless it was developing his eye to hand co-ordination. All the same I had to agree with him – “the graphics are really good!” Thank goodness he hasn’t yet acquired the current slang, he might have said they were, “awesome . . . “

A couple of days of family activity later, I needed a half hour to finish dinner. “You can go on your PlayStation in my room if you like,” I said to him. “No thanks Nonna,” he replied, “I’d rather stay out here with my family.” Sweet kid, that CA. He’ll go far.

EG, the girl, is almost twelve. She is at that age when her appearance is changing dramatically. Since we only see her every three months or so, it always take us by surprise.  I try to remember not to just think it, but to tell her (positively), how she is blossoming. Not in a way meant to embarrass her, but to build her up. I never had any practice with my own mum at these things, so it is something I have to remind myself to be conscious of.

Really, we can all take a lesson from that in everyday life, wouldn’t you agree? If we think something nice about another person, why should we be shy to tell them?

EG is a smart and thoughtful young girl, easy to talk with. She was born a tree-hugger. When she was very young, she would hang out with people for a while, and then wander off to talk to the trees, and then give them a hug for listening.  She hasn’t lost that sense of empathy. I hope the world returns her kindness in the years to come.

Even though we did lots of things together, there are also times when I found myself hanging around. An hour or more in the swimming pool at the end of the day is a must for all our grandchildren, winter or summer – and there is no way I am jumping in with them! Brrrrr. They also like to go on the computers in our library. Their current passion is Pinterest. The boy was fascinated with a photograph of a “fat horse”, otherwise known as a Shetland to my equestrian friends. They had great fun sending emails to each other, even though they were in the same room. (I had a sudden flashback to my corporate workplace, which became so busy and technologically constipated, that we could no longer speak to the person in the next office, and resorted to emailing them instead.)

So – I picked up the Book Thief to amuse myself in my off-duty moments. My girlfriend has been recommending it to me for some time, and I have seen the movie twice.

Well . . . I have rarely enjoyed a book so much in recent months. I had been warned it was hard to get into at first, and I suppose that could be the case if you were unaware that the narrator was Death. In my case, I just “got” where the author was coming from, right from the get-go. And such beautiful language – oh my! So lyrical, musical, evocative, so encompassing. I loved every word of it, and the humour as well. “Humour” you ask? “it was a war story for goodness sake!”

Well, yes, I did find a light, almost humorous tone running through the book. It is one of the features, I believe, which sets it miles apart from the film. The film was interesting, but it was visually and emotionally dark. I believe the book handles the tough, heart-wrenching material with a lighter, more observant, philosophical touch. To put it in Death’s words, Proof again of the contradictory human being.  So much good, so much evil. Just add water.

I’ve been a bit contradictory myself this last year. I have developed a habit of reading the reviews AFTER I have seen a film or read a book. So I was astounded to find that many people hated the book. With a passion. Some hated the language (really?), some hated the annotations at the beginning of each chapter (okay, it is an experimental structure that might irk some – but really? – reject the whole book on that basis?), some hated that it was “yet another book about the Holocaust” (really? – you can set a book anywhere in Europe in WWII and not mention the impact on the Jewish population? That is hardly focusing on the Holocaust.)

Well, as my girlfriend often says, she “wonders if she read the same book as the reviewers.” For my money, I loved every moment of it, and I am still thinking about it a week later. I can only imagine what Markus Zusak went through to produce the final outcome. I hope the good reviews helped him shrug off the negative ones. You sure have to have a tough skin in this writing world.

Sth American SkelchersSo – you remember when we were kids ourselves, and could hardly wait for the grown ups to turn their backs so we could play up? Well, living here, we are the big kids on the block. As soon as the grandkids were back home, we turned our attention to the next restaurant party. This time, the theme was South American. I toyed with putting feathers in my bikini, but just as well I decided to cover up, because the Brazilian dancers who entertained us would have been just too much competition! Instead, I dug around in the wardrobe, and before I knew it, had transformed into my version of a ‘gaucho’. I even trotted out the wig from the 70s night, and managed to plait it to finish off the look. Hope you like it!

Showing Off makes me have funny expressions

Showing Off makes me have funny expressions

Dancing with my imaginary friend

Dancing with my imaginary friend

Sth American professional dancer 1Sth American Professional Dancer 3