According to this naughtly old gentleman at the gig last night, it's the gap between the top of a girl's stocking and the bottom of her skirt (or whatever)... and it's called the giggle gap because, if a man gets that far, he's laughing.
I was deeply flattered to be told that I had brought on three near coronaries with my stockings last night. They should issue medals for that.
Then again maybe I should have dressed a bit more demurely for a 70th birthday party...
Pretty sprightly crowd though - some fine shapes being thrown on the dancefloor. I don't think we've ever seen so much dancing at one of our gigs. The senior citizens of Kent put our regular crew of bright young things to shame. Honey kept sneaking onto the dancefloor in the instrumental solos to Give It Large, but was completely out-shone by an 8-year-old girl in a pink tutu. They soon teamed up and started working on some spectacular routines though - and Connie joined in as soon as she could slip out from behind the keyboards.
Meanwhile my Beloved juggled manning the DJ decks (okay, the DJ laptop) with charming the waiter into serving him not one, not two, but three bottles of Veuve Clicquot - and even found a Magic Mushroom growing in the field full of sheep behind the marquee. Then, paralytic on champagne, he expertly reversed our little car out of the driveway past two porsches and the soundman's trailer at one o'clock in the morning, after I'd made two very pathetic and girly attempts at the manoeuvre and given up in despair. I didn't let him drive home, though.
I only had one glass of champagne all night but I felt as if I'd had three bottles myself - that's what playing a good gig does for you.
Oh, here's another jazz joke, courtesy of Honey Mink:
What do you call a big grey animal that sings jazz?