The floffbeast thought about the time the old dance floor in the barn had finally collapsed. The night before had been a splendid, once in a century party, in one of those glorious and unexpected lining up of circumstances- the long, glorious summer evening dissolving into fireflies, the musicians forgetting themselves in the spinning rush of the music, the magical evening creating a thousand hidden nooks away from the dance floor for small, dim, glittering conversations- and the dancing!! The dancing!! It was like your whole body was love, or laughter, or a cloud, or being carried by a wave on the sea. Quite impossible to put into words, and not a single person stepped on another's foot. But the wily old Huttetu had had an inkling that it was going to be a perfect party, and she had kept track of her spins, and, as the glowing twilight of night grew back into another glorious summer day, she triumphantly cried out that she had beaten the old record of Scrungly Bins, set during a drunken autumn night thirty years ago, and danced the most and most joyously anyone ever had in the floffbeast barn. But then, she didn't stop, since the musicians were still game, and had popped out in shifts to load up on coffee, and so she spun and spun, to solidify her record. She didn't stop, in fact, until that ancient floor, home to so many thousands of dances, suddenly collapsed. When the alarmed onlookers rushed over to a huttetu loudly insisting she was alright, they were astonished to see that the floor had been worn down, from gigantic ancient planks to be almost paper-thin, in the ring where dancing was.
All the friends of the floffbarn came together and pitched together the funds, and there was no shortage, and they were able to install a handsome new floor, good for another two hundred years of dancing.
