In the gap between the remorseless heat of the sun, beating down on Salisbury and the storms which followed, a whirlwind tore through a bungalow on the outskirts of town, destroying pessimism and inhibition, and carrying away self-doubt and timidity.

So reported resident, Jim, who found himself dancing with energy and emotion, vocalising with wit and precision, and uttering strange guttural sounds that a neighbour thought had come from a large bear.

Jim’s explanation is that a small group of artists, calling themselves the CID team had been swept in on the whirlwind and by example and suggestion, brushed aside layers of restriction, uncovering an untamed unself-conscious mover and word weaver.

The CID team, believed to be two dancers, a musician and videographer left only the sweet scent of rose posey as evidence of their presence.



As night fell and the Harvest Moon sat low, big and bright in the sky, as thunder rumbled, and lightning illuminated the landscape, as rain cleansed the stale city air, a man of indeterminate age could be seen, arms spread wide, shoulders back, the rain bouncing off his chest, chanting, and dancing to a band no one else could hear and occasionally letting out a joyful whoop.


Jim Read