They don't know I'm there. I just watch, attach my eyes to their swaying samba hips, the Brazilian rhythm marked out in ripples on the water. They're mostly paired up, boys and girls, boys and boys, girls and girls - libidinous lizard dancers raunching happily away.
I'd like to go and join them, free my hips down there on the bank, gyrate my way through to the loose louche satisfaction which they all seem to enjoy.
But I can't go and join them, because they don't really exist. They're just part of the picture, the moving picture which paints itself when I close my eyes. Any sensible person knows that iguanas don't dance.
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